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Page 310. 
















1 

Scottish Sketches. 



MRS. AMELIA E. BARR. 



. B 2.1 S' 


COPYRIGHT, 1883, 


BY AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY. 


1 



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i 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT 7 

JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE loi 

FACING HIS ENEMY . . ' 163 

ANDREW CARGILL’S CONFESSION . . . . 241 ' 

ONE WRONG STEP 267 

LILE DAVIE 309 



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CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 


CHAPTER I. 

Alexander Crawford sat reading a book 
which he studied frequently with a profound in- 
terest. Not the Bible : that volume had indeed 
its place of honor in the room, but the book Craw- 
ford read was a smaller one; it was stoutly bound 
and secured by a brass lock, and it was all in man- 
uscript. It was his private ledger, and it con- 
tained his bank account. Its contents seemed to 
give him much solid satisfaction ; and when at 
last he locked the volume and replaced it in his 
secretary, it was with that careful respect which 
he considered due to the representative of so many 
thousand pounds. 

He was in a placid mood, and strangely in- 
clined to retrospection. Thoughtfully fingering 
the key which locked up the record of his wealth, 
he walked to the window and looked out. It 
was a dreary prospect of brown moor and gray 
sea, but Crawford loved it. The bare land and 


8 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


the barren mountains was the country of the 
Crawfords. He had a fixed idea that it always 
had been theirs, and whenever he told himself — 
as he did this night — that so many acres of old 
Scotland were actually his own, he was aggres- 
sively a Scotchman. 

“It is a bonnie bit o’ land,” he murmured, 
‘ ‘ and I hae done as my father Laird Archibald 
told me. If we should meet in another warld I ’ll 
be able to gie a good account o’ Crawford and 
Traquare. It is thirty years to-night since he 
gave me the ring off his finger, and said, ‘ Alex- 
ander, I am going the way o’ all flesh ; be a good 
man, and grip tight. ^ I hae done as he bid me; 
there is /'8o,ooo in the Bank o’ Scotland, and 
every mortgage lifted. I am vera weel pleased 
wi’ mysel’ to-night. I hae been a good holder o’ 
Crawford and Traquare. ’ ’ 

His self-complacent reflections were cut short 
by the entrance of his daughter. She stood be- 
side him, and laid her hand upon his arm with a 
caressing gesture. No other living creature durst 
have taken that liberty with him; but to Craw- 
ford his daughter Helen was a being apart from 
common humanity. She was small, but very 
lovely, with something almost Puritanical in her 
dainty, precise dress and carefully snooded golden 
hair. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 9 

“ Father !” 

“Helen, my bird.” 

“Colin is coming home. I have just had a 
letter from him. He has taken high honors in 
Glasgow. We’ll both be proud of Colin, father.” 

“What has he done?” 

“He has written a prize poem in Latin and 
Greek, and he is second in mathematics. ^ ’ 

“Latin and Greek ! Poor ghostlike languages 
that hae put off flesh and blood lang syne. Poe- 
try ! Warse than nonsense I David and Solomon 
hae gien us such sacred poetry as is good and 
necessary ; and for sinfu’ love verses and such 
vanities, if Scotland must hae them, Robert 
Burns is mair than enough. As to mathematics, 
there’s naething against them. A study that is 
founded on figures is to be depended upon; it has 
nae flights and fancies. You ken what you are 
doing wi’ figures. When is this clever fellow to 
be here?” 

“He is coming by the afternoon packet to- 
morrow. We must send the carriage to meet it, 
for Colin is bringing a stranger with him. I came 
to ask you if I must have the best guest-room 
made ready.” 

“Whafor?” 

“He is an English gentleman, from London, 
father, ’ ’ 


lO 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“And you would put an Englishman in the 
room where the twa last Stuarts slept? I’ll not 
hear tell o’ it. I’m not the man to lift a quarrel 
my fathers dropped, but I ’ll hae no English body 
in Prince Charlie’s room. Mind that, noo ! What 
is the man’s name?” 

“Mr. George Selwyn.” 

“George Selwyn ! There’s nae Scotch Sel- 
wyns that I ken o’. He’ll be Saxon altogether. 
Put him in the East room.” 

Crawford was not pleased at his son bringing 
any visitor. In the first place, he had important 
plans to discuss and carry out, and he was impa- 
tient of further delay. In the second, he was in- 
tensely jealous of Helen. Every young man was 
a probable suitor, and he had quite decided that 
Farquharson of Blair was the proper husband for 
her. Crawford and Blair had stood shoulder to 
shoulder in every national quarrel, and a mar- 
riage would put the two estates almost in a ring 
fence. 

But he went the next day to meet the young 
men. He had not seen his son for three years, 
and the lad was an object very near and dear to 
his heart. He loved him tenderly as his son, he 
respected him highly as the future heir of Craw- 
ford and Traquare. The Crawfords were a very 
handsome race ; he was anxious that this, their 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. II 

thirteenth representative, should be worthy, even 
physically, of his ancestors. He drew a long sigh 
of gratification as young Colin, with open hands, 
came up to him. The future laird was a noble- 
looking fellow, a dark, swarthy Highlandman, 
with glowing eyes, and a frame which promised 
in a few years to fill up splendidly. 

His companion was singularly unlike him. 
Old Crawford had judged rightly. He was a 
pure Saxon, and showed it in his clear, fresh 
complexion, pale brown hair, and clear, wide- 
open blue eyes. But there was something about 
this young man which struck a deeper and wider 
sympathy than race — he had a heart beating for 
all humanity. Crawford looked at him physical- 
ly only, and he decided at once, ‘ ‘ There is no 
fear of Helen.” He told himself that young Far- 
quharson was six inches taller and every way a far 
“prettier man.” Helen was not of this opinion. 
No hero is so fascinating to a woman as the man 
mentally and spiritually above her, and whom she 
must love from a distance; and if Crawford could 
have known how dangerous were those walks 
over the springy heather and through the still 
pine woods, Mr. Selwyn would have taken them 
far more frequently alone than he did. 

But Crawford had other things to employ his 
attention at that time, and indeed the young Eng- 


12 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


lish clergyman was far beyond his mental and 
spiritual horizon ; he could not judge him fairly. 
So these young people walked and rode and 
sailed together, and Selwyn- talked like an apos- 
tle of the wrongs that were to be righted and the 
poor perishing souls that were to be redeemed. 
The spiritual warfare in which he was enlisted 
had taken possession of him, and he spoke with 
the martial enthusiasm of a young soldier buck- 
ling on his armor. 

Helen and Colin listened in glowing silence, 
Helen showing her sympathy by her flushing 
cheeks and wet eyes, and Colin by the impatient 
way in which he struck down with his stick the 
thistles by the path side, as if they were the de- 
mons of sin and ignorance and dirt Selwyn was 
warring against. But after three weeks of this 
intercourse Crawford became sensible of some 
change in the atmosphere of his home. When 
Selwyn flrst arrived, and Crawford learned that 
he was a clergyman in orders, he had, out of re- 
spect to the office, delegated to him the conduct 
of family worship. Gradually Selwyn had begun 
to illustrate the gospel text with short, earnest re- 
marks, which were a revelation of Bible truth to 
the thoughtful men and women who heard them. 

The laird’s “exercises” had often been slipped 
away from, excuses had been frequent, absentees 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. I3 

usual; but they came to listen to Selwyii with an 
eagerness which irritated him. In our day, the 
gospel of Christ has brought forth its last beau- 
tiful blossom — the gospel of humanity. Free 
schools, free Bibles, Tract and City Missions, 
Hospitals and Clothing Societies, loving helps of 
all kinds are a part of every church organisation. 
But in tlie time of which I am writing they were 
unknown in country parishes, they struggled even 
in great cities for a feeble life. 

The laird and his servants heard some start- 
ling truths, and the laird began to rebel against 
them. A religion of intellectual faith, and which 
had certain well-recognised claims on his pocket, 
he was willing to support, and to defend, if need 
were ; but he considered one which made him on 
every hand his brother’s keeper a dangerously 
democratic theology. 

“I’ll hae no socialism in my religion, any 
more than I’ll hae it in my politics, Colin,” he 
said angrily. “And if yon Mr. Selwyn belongs 
to what they call the Church o’ England, I’m 
niair set up than ever wi’ the Kirk o’ Scotland ! 
God bless her !” 

They were sitting in the room sacred to busi- 
ness and to the memory of the late Laird Archi- 
bald. Colin was accustomed to receive his fa- 
ther’s opinions in silence, and he made no answer 


H 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


to this remark. This time, however, the laird 
was not satisfied with the presumed assent of si- 
lence; he asked sharply, “What say ye to that, 
son Colin?” 

“ I say God bless the Kirk of Scotland, father, 
and I say it the more heartily because I would 
like to have a place among those who serve her.” 

‘ ‘ What are ye saying now ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That I should like to be a minister. I sup- 
pose you have no objections.” 

“I hae vera great objections. I’ll no hear 
tell o’ such a thing. Ministers canna mak 
money, and they canna save it. If you should 
mak it, that would be an offence to your congre- 
gation ; if ye should save it, they would say ye 
ought to hae gien it to the poor. There will be 
nae Dominie Crawford o’ my kin, Colin. Will 
naeth' d'^. but looking down on the warld from a 
pulpit ' . ^ /e you?” 

art, father. I can paint a little, and I 
love music.” 

“Art! Painting! Music! Is the lad gane 
daft? God has gien to some men wisdom and 
understanding, to ithers the art o’ playing on the 
fiddle and painting pictures. There shall be 
no painting, fiddling Crawford among my kin, 
Colin.” 

The young fellow bit his lip, and his eyes 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 1 5 

flashed dangerously beneath their dropped lids. 
But he said calmly enough, 

“ What is your own idea, father? I am twen- 
ty-two, I ought to be doing a man’s work of some 
kind.” 

“Just sae. That is warld-like talk. Now 
I ’ll speak wi’ you anent a grand plan I hae had 
for a long time.” With these words he rose, and 
took from his secretary a piece of parchment con- 
taining the plan of the estate. “Sit down, son 
Colin, and I’ll show you your inheritance.” 
Then he went carefully over every acre of moor 
and wood, of moss and water, growing enthusias- 
tic as he pointed out how many sheep could be 
grazed on the hills, what shooting and fishing 
privileges were worth, etc. ‘ ‘ And the best is to 
come, my lad. There is coal on the estate, and I 
am going to open it up, for I hae the rea '' siller 
to do it. ” r. 

Colin sat silent ; his cold, dissentinr 'v I- 
tated the excited laird very much. 

“What hae ye got to say to a’ this, Colin?” 
he asked proudly, “for you’ll hae the manage- 
ment o’ everything with me. Why, my dear son, 
if a’ goes weel — and it’s sure to — we’ll be rich 
enough in a few years to put in our claim for the 
old Karldom o’ Crawford, and you may tak your 
seat in the House o’ Peers yet. The old chevalier 


1 6 CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 

promised us a Dukedom,” ke said sadly, “but 
I ’m feared that will be aboon our thumb — ” 

“Father, what are you going to do with the 
clansmen? Do you think Highlandmen who 
have lived on the mountains are going to dig 
coal ? Do you imagine that these men, who, un- 
til a generation or two ago, never handled any- 
thing but a claymore, and who even now scorn to 
do aught but stalk deer or spear salmon, will take 
a shovel and a pickaxe and labor as coal-miners ? 
There is not a Crawford among them who would 
do it. I would despise him if he did. ’ ’ 

“There 'is a glimmer o’ good sense in what 
you say, Colin. I dinna intend any Crawford to 
work in my coal mine. Little use they would 
be there. I’ll send to Glasgow for some Irish 
bodies. ’ ’ 

“And then you will have more fighting than 
working on the place; and you ’ll have to build a 
Roman-catholic chapel, and have a Roman priest 
in Crawford, and you ken whether the Crawfords 
will thole that or not. ’ ’ 

“As to the fighting, I ’ll gie them no chance. 
I’m going to send the Crawfords to Canada. I 
hae thought it all out. The shellings will do for 
the others; the land I want for sheep grazing. 
They are doing nae thing for themsel’s, and they 
are just a burden to me. It will be better for 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 1/ 

them to gang to Canada. I ’ll pay their passage, 
and I ’ll gie them a few pounds each to start them. 
You must stand by me in this matter, for they’ll 
hae to go sooner or later. ’ ’ 

“That is a thing I cannot do, father. There 
is not a Taird of Crawford that was not nursed on 
some clanswoman’s breast. We are all kin. Do 
you think I would like to see Rory and Jean 
Crawford packed off to Canada? And there is 
young Hector, my foster-brother ! And old Ailsa, 
your own foster-sister ! Every Crawford has a 
right to a bite and a sup from the Crawford 
land.” 

“That is a’ bygane nonsense. Your great- 
grandfather, if he wanted cattle or meal, could 
just take the clan and go and harry some South- 
ern body out o’ them. That is beyond our power, 
and it’s an unca charge to hae every Crawford 
looking to you when hunting and fishing fails. 
They ’ll do fine in Canada. There is grand hunt- 
ing, and if they want fighting, doubtless there will 
be Indians. They will hae to go, and you will 
hae to stand by me in this matter.” 

“It is against my conscience, sir. I had also 
plans about these poor, half-civilized, loving kins- 
men of ours. You should hear Selwyn talk of 
what we might do with them. There is land 
enough to give all who want it a few acres, and 
3 


i8 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


the rest could be set up with boats and nets as 
fishers. They would like that.” 

“ Nae doubt. But I don’t like it, and I wont 
hae it. Mr. Selwyn may hae a big parish in 
London, but the Crawfords arena in his congre- 
gation. I am king and bishop within my ain 
estate, Colin.” Then he rose in a decided pas- 
sion and locked up again the precious parch- 
ment, and Colin understood that, for the present, 
the subject was dismissed. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 


19 


CHAPTER II. 

At the very time this conversation was in pro- 
gress, one strangely dissimilar was being carried 
on between George Selwyn and Helen Crawford. 
They were sitting in the sweet, old-fashioned gar- 
den, and Selwyn had been talking of the work so 
dear to his heart, but a silence had fallen between 
them. Then softly and almost hesitatingly Helen 
said, “Mr. Selwyn, I cannot help in this grand 
evangel, except with money and prayers. May I 
offer you ;^300? It is entirely my own, and it lies 
useless in my desk. Will you take it?” 

“ I have no power to refuse it. ‘ You give it 
to God, durst I say no ?’ But as I do not return 
at once, you had better send it in a check to our 
treasurer. ’ ’ Then he gave her the necessary busi- 
ness directions, and was writing the address of 
the treasurer when the laird stopped in front of 
them. 

“Helen, you are needed in the house,” he 
said abruptly; and then turning to Selwyn, he 
asked him to take a walk up the hill. The young 
man complied. He was quite unconscious of the 
anger in the tone of the request. For a few yards 
neither spoke; then the laird, with an irritable 


20 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


glance at liis placid companion, said, ^‘Mr. Sel- 
wyn, fore-speaking saves after-speaking. Helen 
Crawford is bespoke for young Farquharson of 
Blair, and if you have any hopes o’ wiving in my 
house — ” 

‘ ‘ Crawford, thank you for your warning, but 
I have no thoughts of marrying any one. Helen 
Crawford is a pearl among women; but even if 
I wanted a wife, she is unfit for my helpmate. 
When I took my curacy in the East End of Eon- 
don I counted the cost. Not for the fairest of the 
daughters of men would I desert my first love — 
the Christ-work to which I have solemnly dedi- 
cated my life. ’ ’ 

His voice fell almost to a whisper, but the out- 
ward, upward glance of the inspired eyes com- 
pletely disconcerted the aggressive old chieftain. 
His supposed enemy, in some intangible way, had 
escaped him, and he felt keenly his own mistake. 
He was glad to see Colin coming; it gave him an 
opportunity of escaping honorably from a conver- 
sation which had been very humiliating to him. 
He had a habit when annoyed of seeking the sea- 
beach. The chafing, complaining waves suited 
his fretful mood, and leaving the young men, he 
turned to the sea, taking the hillside with such 
mighty strides that Selwyn watched him with 
admiration and astonishment. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 21 

“ Four miles of that walking will bring him 
home in the most amiable of moods,” said Colin. 
And perhaps it would, if he had been left to the 
sole companionship of nature. But when he was 
half way home he met Dominie Tallisker, a man 
of as lofty a spirit as any Crawford who ever 
lived. The two men were close friends, though 
they seldom met without disagreeing on some 
point. 

“ Weel met, dominie ! Are you going to the 
Keep ?’ ’ 

“Just so, I am for an hour’s talk wi’ that fine 
young English clergyman you hae staying wi’ 
you. ’ ’ 

“Tallisker, let me tell you, man, you hae been 
seen o’er much wi’ him lately. Why, dominie ! 
he is an Episcopal, and an Arminian o’ the vera 
warst kind. ’ ’ 

“Hout, laird! Arminianism isna a conta- 
gious disease. I’ll no mair tak Arminianism 
from the Rev. George Selwyn than I’ll tak Tory- 
ism fra Laird Alexander Crawford. My theology 
and my politics are far beyond inoculation. Let 
me tell you that, laird.” 

“Hae ye gotten an argument up wi’ him, 
Tallisker? I would like weel to hear ye twa at 
it. ” 

“Na, na; he isna one o’ them that argues. 


22 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


He maks downright assertions; every one o’ them 
hits a body’s conscience like a sledge-hammer. 
He said that to me as we walked the moor last 
night that didna let me sleep a wink.” 

‘ ‘ He is a vera disagreeable young man. What 
could he say to you ? You have aye done your 
duty. ’ ’ 

“ I thought sae once, Crawford. I taught the 
bairns their catechism ; I looked weel to the spir- 
itual life o’ young and old; I had aye a word in 
season for all. But maybe this I ought to hae 
done, and not left the other undone. ’ ’ 

“You are talking foolishness, Tallisker, and 
that’s a thing no usual wi’ you.” 

“No oftener wi’ me nor other folk. But, 
laird, I feel there must be a change. I hae gotten 
my orders, and I am going to obey them. You 
may be certain o’ that.” 

“I didna think I would ever see Dominie 
Tallisker taking orders from a disciple o’ Armin- 
ius — and an Englishman forbye !” 

“I’ll tak my orders, Crawford, from any 
messenger the Eord chooses to send them by. 
And I’ll do this messenger justice; he laid down 
no law to me, he only spak o’ the duty laid on 
his own conscience ; but my conscience said 
‘ Amen ’ to his — that ’s about it. There has been 
a breath o’ the Holy Ghost through the Church o’ 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 23 

England lately, and the dry bones o’ its ceremo- 
nials are being clothed upon wi’ a new and 'won- 
derfu’ life.” 

“ HumfF!” said the laird with a scornful laugh 
as he kicked a pebble out of his way. 

“There is a great outpouring at Oxford among 
the young men, and though I dinna agree wi’ 
them in a’ things, I can see that they hae gotten 
a revelation. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Ou, ay, the young ken a’ things. It is aye 
young men that are for turning the warld upside 
down. Naething is good enough for them.” 

The dominie took no notice of the petulant 
interruption. “ Laird,” he said excitedly, “it is 
like a’ fresh Epiphany, what this young Mr. 
Selwyn says — the hungry are fed, the naked 
clothed, the prisoners comforted, the puir wee, 
ragged, ignorant bairns gathered into homes and 
schools, and it is the gospel wi’ bread and meat 
and shelter and schooling in its hand. That was 
Christ’s ain way, you’ll admit that. And while 
he was talking, my heart burned, and I bethought 
me of a night-school for the little herd laddies and 
lasses. They could study their lessons on the 
hillside all day, and I ’ll gather them for an hour 
at night, and gie them a basin o’ porridge and 
milk after their lessons. And we ought not to 
send the orphan weans o’ the kirk to the wark- 


24 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


house; we ought to hae a hame for them, and 
our sick ought to be better looked to. There is 
many another good thing to do, but we ’ll begin 
wi’ these, and the rest will follow. ’ ’ 

The laird had listened thus far in speechless 
indignation. He now stood still, and said, 

“I’ll hae you to understand. Dominie Tal- 
lisker, that I am laird o’ Crawford and Traquare, 
and I ’ll hae nae such pliskies played in either o’ 
my clachans.” 

“If you are laird, I am dominie. You ken 
me weel enough to be sure if this thing is a mat- 
ter o’ conscience to me, neither king nor kaiser 
can stop me. I ’d snap my fingers in King 
George’s face if he bid me ‘stay,’ when my con- 
science said ‘go,’ ” and the dominie accompanied 
the threat with that sharp, resonant fillip of the 
fingers that is a Scotchman’s natural expression 
of intense excitement of any kind. 

“King George!” cried the laird, in an un- 
governable temper, “there is the whole trouble. 
If we had only a Charles Stuart on the throne 
there would be nane o’ this Whiggery.” 

“There would be in its place masses, and 
popish priests, and a few private torture-chambers, 
and whiles a Presbyterian heretic or twa burned 
at the Grass-market. Whiggery is a grand thing 
when it keeps the Scarlet Woman on her ain 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 25 

seven hills. Scotland’s hills and braes can do 
weel, weel without her.” 

This speech gave the laird time to think. It 
would never do to quarrel with Tallisker. If he 
should set himself positively against his scheme 
of sending his clan to Canada it would be almost 
a hopeless one; and then he loved and respected 
his friend. His tall, powerful frame and his dark, 
handsome face, all aglow with a passionate con- 
viction of right, and an invincible determination 
to do it, commanded his thorough admiration. 
He clasped his hands behind his back and said 
calmly, 

‘‘Tallisker, you’ll be sorry enough for your 
temper erelong. You hae gien way mair than 
I did. Ye ken how you feel about it.” 

“I feel ashamed o’ mysel’, laird. You’ll no 
lay the blame o’ it to my office, but to Dugald 
Tallisker his ain sel’. There ’s a deal o’ Dugald 
Tallisker in me yet, laird; and whiles he is o’er 
much for Dominie Tallisker.” 

They were at the gate by this time, and Craw- 
ford held out his hand and said, 

“ Come in, dominie.” 

“No; I’ll go hame, laird, and gie mysel’ a 
talking to. Tell Mr. Selwyn I want to see him.” 


4 


26 


SCOTTISH SMTCHES. 


CHAPTER III. 

Alas, How often do Christ’s words, “I come 
not to bring peace, but a sword,” prove true. 
George Selwyn went away, but the seed he had 
dropped in this far-off corner of Scotland did not 
bring forth altogether the peaceable fruits of 
righteousness. In fact, as we have seen, it had 
scarcely begun to germinate before the laird and 
the dominie felt it to be a root of bitterness between 
them. For if Crawford knew anything he knew 
that Tallisker would never relinquish his new 
work, and perhaps if he yielded to any reasonable 
object Tallisker would stand by him in his project. 

He did not force the emigration plan upon his 
notice. The summer was far advanced ; it would 
be unjustifiable to send the clan to Canada at the 
beginning of winter. And, as it happened, the 
subject was opened with the dominie in a very 
favorable manner. They were returning from 
the moors one day and met a party of six men. 
They were evidently greatly depressed, but they 
lifted their bonnets readily to the chief. There 
was a hopeless, unhappy look about them that 
was very painful. 


crawi^ord’s sair strait. 27 

“You have been unsuccessful on the hills, 
Archie, I fear.” 

“There’s few red deer left,” said the man 
gloomily. ‘ ‘ It used to be deer and men ; it is 
sheep and dogs now. ’ ’ 

After a painful silence the dominie said, 

‘ ‘ Something ought to be done for those braw 
fellows. They canna ditch and delve like an 
Irish peasant. It would be like harnessing stags 
in a plough.” 

Then Crawford spoke cautiously of his inten- 
tion, and to his delight the dominie approved it. 

“ I ’ll send them out in Read & Murray’s best 
ships. I ’ll gie each head o’ a family what you 
think right, Tallisker, and I’ll put;^ioo in your 
hands for special cases o’ help. And you will 
speak to the men and their wives for me, for it is 
a thing I canna bear to do. ’ ’ 

But the men too listened eagerly to the propo- 
sition. They trusted the dominie, and they were 
weary of picking up a precarious living in hunt- 
ing and fishing, and relying on the chief in emer- 
gencies. Their old feudal love and reverence 
still remained in a large measure, but they were 
quite sensible that everything had changed in 
their little world, and that they were out of tune 
with it. Some few of their number had made 
their way to India or Canada, and there was a 


28 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


vague dissatisfaction whicli only required a pros- 
pect of change to develop. As time went on, and 
the laird’s plan for opening the coal beds on his 
estate got knowm, the men became impatient to 
be gone. 

In the early part of March two large ships lay 
off the coast waiting for them, and they went in 
a body to Crawford Keep to bid the chief ‘ ‘ fare- 
well.” It was a hard hour, after all, to Crawford. 
The great purpose that he had kept before his 
eyes for years was not at that moment sufficient. 
He had dressed himself in his full chieftain’s suit 
to meet them. The eagle’s feather in his Glen- 
gary gave to his great stature the last grace. The 
tartan and philibeg, the garters at his knee, the 
silver buckles at his shoulder, belt, and shoon, the 
jewelled mull and dirk, had all to these poor fel- 
lows in this last hour a proud and sad signifi- 
cance. As he stood on the steps to welcome 
them, the wind colored his handsome face and 
blew out the long black hair which fell curling 
on his shoulders. 

Whatever they intended to say to him, when 
they thus saw him with young Colin by his side 
they were unable to say. They could only lift 
their bonnets in silence. The instincts and tra- 
ditions of a thousand years were over them; he 
was at this moment the father and the chief of 


I' 




< 













CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 29 

their deepest affection. One by one they ad- 
vanced to him. He pressed the hands of all. 
Some of the older men — companions of his youth 
in play and sport — he kissed with a solemn ten- 
derness. They went away silently as they came, 
but every heart was full and every eye was dim. 
There was a great feast for them in the clachan 
that night, but it was a sombre meeting, and the 
dominie’s cheerful words of advice and comfort 
formed its gayest feature. 

The next day was calm and clear. The wo- 
men and children were safely on board soon after 
noon, and about four o’clock the long boats left 
the shore full of men. Tallisker was in the front 
one. As they pulled away he pointed silently to 
a steep crag on the shingly beach. The chief 
stood upon it. He waved his bonnet, and then 
the long-pent feelings of the clan found vent in 
one long, pitiful Gallic lament, 0 hon a rte ! O 
hon a rie ! For a few moments the boats lay at 
rest, no man was able to lift an oar. Suddenly 
Tallisker’ s clear, powerful voice touched the right 
chord. To the grand, plaintive melody of St. 
Mary’s he began the 125th Psalm, 

They in the Lord that firmly trust 
shall be like Sion hill, 

Which at no time can be removed, 
but standeth ever still. 


30 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


As round about Jerusalem 
the mountains stand alway ; 

The Lord his folk doth compass so 
from henceforth and for aye.” 

And thus singing together they passed from their 
old life into a new one. 

Colin had been indignant and sorrowful over 
the whole affair. He and Helen were still young 
enough to regret the breaking of a tie which 
bound them to a life whose romance cast some- 
thing like a glamour over the prosaic one of more 
modern times. Both would, in the unreasonable- 
ness of youthful sympathy, have willingly shared 
land and gold with their poor kinsmen; but in 
this respect Tallisker was with the laird. 

“ It was better,” he said, “ that the old feudal 
tie should be severed even by a thousand leagues 
of ocean. They were men and not bairns, and 
they could feel their ain feet;” and then he smiled 
as he remembered how naturally they had taken 
to self-dependence. For one night, in a conver- 
sation with the oldest men, he said, “ Crawfords, 
ye ’ll hae to consider, as soon as you are gathered 
together in your new hame, the matter o’ a domi- 
nie. Your little flock in the wilderness will need 
a shepherd, and the proper authorities maun be 
notified.” 

Then an old gray-headed man had answered 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 31 

very firmly, “Dominie, we will elect our ain 
minister. We liae been heart and soul, every 
man o’ us, with the Relief Kirk; but it is ill 
living in Rome and striving wi’ the pope, and 
sae for the chiefs sake and your sake we hae 
withheld our testimony. But we ken weel that 
even in Scotland the Kirk willna hirple along 
much farther wi’ the State on her back, and in 
the wilderness, please God, we’ll plant only a 
Free Kirk.” 

The dominie heard the resolve in silence, but 
to himself he said softly, “ 77/^' do! TheyUl 
do! They’ll be a bit upsetting at first, maybe, 
but they are queer folk that have nae failings.” 

A long parting is a great strain ; it was a great 
relief when the ships had sailed quite out of sight. 
The laird with a light heart now turned to his 
new plans. No reproachful eyes and unhappy 
faces were there to damp his ardor. Everything 
promised well. The coal seam proved to be far 
richer than had been anticipated, and those expert 
in such matters said there were undoubted indica- 
tions of the near presence of iron ore. Great fur- 
naces began to loom up in Crawford’s mental vis- 
ion, and to cast splendid lustres across his future 
fortunes. 

In a month after the departure of the clan, the 
little clachan of Traquare had greatly changed. 


32 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


Long rows of brick cottages, ugly and monoto- 
nous beyond description, had taken, the place of 
the more picturesque sheilings. Men who seemed 
to measure everything in life with a two-foot rule 
were making roads and building jetties for coal 
smacks to lie at. There was constant influx of 
strange men and women — men of stunted growth 
and white faces, and who had an insolent, swag- 
gering air, intolerably vulgar when contrasted 
with the Doric simplicity and quiet gigantic man- 
hood of the mountain shepherds. 

The new workers were, however, mainly Low- 
land Scotchmen from the mining districts of Ayr- 
shire. The dominie had set himself positively 
against the introduction of a popish element and 
an alien people; and in this position he had been 
warmly upheld by Farquharson and the neighbor- 
ing proprietors. As it was, there was an antag- 
onism likely to give him full employment. The 
Gael of the mountains regarded these Lowland 
‘ ‘ working bodies ’ ’ with something of that dis- 
dain which a rich and cultivated man feels for 
kin, not only poor, but of contemptible nature 
and associations. The Gael was poor truly, but 
he held himself as of gentle birth. He had lived 
by his sword, or by the care of cattle, hunting, 
and fishing. Spades, hammers, and looms be- 
longed to people of another kind. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT* 33 

Besides this great social gulf, there were polit- 
ical and religious ones still wider. That these 
differences were traditional, rather than real, made 
no distinction. Men have always fought as pas- 
sionately for an idea as for a fact. But Dominie 
Tallisker was a man made for great requirements 
and great trusts. He took in the position with 
the eye of a general. He watched the two classes 
passing down the same streets as far apart as if 
separated by a continent, and he said, with a very 
positive look on his face, “These men are breth- 
ren, and they ought to dwell in unity; and, God 
helping Dugald Tallisker, they will do it, yes, in- 
deed, Ijiey will.” 


5 


34 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER IV. 

In a year after the departure of the clan, the 
clachans of Crawford and Traquare had lost al- 
most all traces of their old pastoral character. 
The coal pit had been opened, and great iron fur- 
naces built almost at its mouth. Things had 
gone well with Crawford ; the seam had proved to 
be unusually rich; and, though the iron had been 
found, not on his land, but on the extreme edge 
of Blair, he was quite satisfied. Farquharson had 
struck hands with him over it, and the Bltir iron 
ore went to the Crawford furnaces to be smelted 
into pig iron. 

Crawford had grown younger in the ardent 
life he had been leading. No one would have ta- 
ken him to be fifty-five years old. He hardly 
thought of the past; he only told himself that he 
had never been as strong and clear-headed and 
full of endurance, and that it was probable he, had 
yet nearly half a century before him. What could 
he not accomplish in that time ? 

But in every earthly success there is a Morde- 
cai sitting in its gate, and Colin was the uncom- 
fortable feature in the laird’s splendid hopes. He 
had lounged heartlessly to and from the works; 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 35 

the steady, mechanical routine of the new life op- 
pressed him, and he had a thorough dislike for 
the new order of men with whom he had to come 
in contact. The young Crawfords had followed 
him about the hills with an almost canine affec- 
tion and admiration. To them he was always 
‘‘the young laird.” These sturdy Ayrshire and 
Galloway men had an old covenanting rebel- 
liousness about them. They disputed even with 
Dominie Tallisker on church government; they 
sang Robert Burns’ most democratic songs in 
Crawford’s very presence. 

Then Colin contrasted them physically with 
the great fellows he had been accustomed to see 
striding over the hills, and he despised the forms 
stunted by working in low seams and unhealthy 
vapors and the faces white for lack of sunshine 
and grimy with the all-pervading coal dust. The 
giants who toiled in leather masks and leather 
suits before the furnaces suited his taste better. 
When he watched them moving about amid the 
din and flames and white-hot metal, he thought 
of Vulcan and Mount ^tna, and thus threw over 
them the enchantments of the old Roman age. 
But in their real life the men disappointed him. 
They were vulgar and quarrelsome ; the poorest 
Highland gillie had a vein of poetry in his na^ 
ture, but these iron- workers were painfully matter 


36 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


of fact; they could not even understand a courtesy 
unless it took the shape of a glass of whiskey. 

It was evident to the laird that the new life 
was very distasteful to his heir; it was evident to 
the dominie that it was developing the worst sides 
of Colin’s character. Something of this he point- 
ed out to Helen one morning. Helen and he had 
lately become great friends, indeed, they were co- 
workers together in all the new labors which the 
dominie’s conscience had set him. The laird had 
been too busy and anxious about other matters to 
interfere as yet with this alliance, but he promised 
himself he would do so very soon. Helen Craw- 
ford was not going to nurse sick babies and sew 
for all the old women in the clachan much longer. 
And the night-school! This was particularly of- 
fensive to him. Some of the new men had gone 
there, and Crawford was sure he was in some way 
defrauded by it. He thought it impossible to 
work in the day and study an hour at night. In 
some way he suffered by it. 

‘ ‘ If they werna in the schoolroom they would 
be in the Change House, ’ ’ Tallisker had argued. 

But the laird thought in his heart that the 
whiskey would be more to his advantage than 
the books. Yet he did not like to say so; there 
was something in the dominie’s face which re- 
strained him. He had opened the subject in that 


CRAWFORD^ S SAIR STRAIT. 37 

blustering way which always hides the white 
feather somewhere beneath it, and Tallisker had 
answered with a solemn severity, 

‘ ‘ Crawford, it seems to be your wark to mak 
money; it is mine to save souls. Our roads are 
sae far apart we arena likely to run against each 
other, if we dinna try to. ’ ’ 

“ But I don’t like the way you are doing your 
wark; that is all, dominie.” 

“ Mammon never did like God’s ways. There 
is a vera old disagreement between them. A man 
has a right to consider his ain welfare, Crawford, 
but it shouldna be mair than the twa tables o’ the 
law to him.” 

Now Tallisker was one of those ministers who 
bear their great commission in their faces. There 
was something almost imperial about the man 
when he took his stand by the humblest altar of 
his duty. Crawford had intended at this very 
time to speak positively on the subject of his own 
workers to Tallisker. But when he looked at the 
dark face,' set and solemn and full of an irresisti- 
ble authority, he was compelled to keep silence. 
A dim fear that Tallisker would say something to 
him which would make him uncomfortable crept 
into his heart. It was better that both the domi- 
nie and conscience should be quiet at present. 

Still he could not refrain from saying. 


38 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“You liae set yourseP a task you ’ll ne’er win 
over, dominie. You could>as easy mak Ben-Cru- 
chan cross the valley and sit down by Ben-Appin 
as mak Gael and kowlander call each other broth- 
ers. ’ ’ 

“We are told, Crawford, that mountains may 
be moved by faith ; why not, then, by love ? I 
am a servant o’ God. I dinna think it any pre- 
sumption to expect impossibilities.” 

Still it must be acknowledged that Tallisker 
looked on the situation as a difficult one. The 
new workers to a man disapproved of the Estab- 
lished Church of Scotland. Perhaps of all classes 
of laborers Scotch colliers are the most theoret- 
ically democratic and the most practically indif- 
ferent in matters of religion. Every one of them 
had relief and secession arguments ready for use, 
and they used them chiefly as an excuse for not 
attending Tallisker’ s ministry. When conscience 
is used as an excuse, or as a weapon for wound- 
ing, it is amazing how tender it becomes. It 
pleased these Eowland workers to assert a reli- 
gious freedom beyond that of the dominie and the 
shepherd Gael around them. And if men wish to 
quarrel, and can give their quarrel a religious ba- 
sis, they secure a tolerance and a respect which 
their own characters would not give them. Tal- 
lisker might pooh-pooh sectional or political dif- 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 39 

ferences, but he was himself far too scrupulous to 
regard with indifference the smallest theological 
hesitation. 

One day as he was walking up the clachan 
pondering these things, he noticed before him a 
Highland shepherd driving a flock to the hills. 
There was a party of colliers sitting around the 
Change House; they were the night-gang, and 
having had their sleep and their breakfast, were 
now smoking and drinking away the few hours 
left of their rest. Anything offering the chance 
of amusement was acceptable, and Jim Arm- 
strong, a saucy, bullying fellow from the lyons- 
dale mines, who had great confidence in his Cum- 
berland wrestling tricks, thought he saw in the 
placid indifference of the shepherd a good oppor- 
tunity for bravado. 

“Sawnie, ye needna pass the Change House 
because we are here. We ’ll no hurt you, man.” 

The shepherd was as one who heard not. 

Then followed an epithet that no Highlander 
can hear unmoved, and the man paused and put 
his hand under his plaid. Tallisker saw the 
movement and quickened his steps. The word 
was repeated, with the scornful laugh of the 
group to enforce it. The shepherd called his dog — 

‘ ‘ Keeper, you tak the sheep to the Cruchan 
corrie, and dinna let ane o’ them stray. ’ ’ 


40 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


The dumb creature looked in his face assent- 
ingly, and with a sharp bark took the flock in 
charge. Then the shepherd walked up to the 
group, and Jim Armstrong rose to meet him. 

“Nae dirks,” said an old man quietly; “tak 
your hands like men. ’ ’ 

Before the speech was over they were clinched 
in a grasp which meant gigantic strength on one 
side, and a good deal of practical bruising science 
on the other. But before there was an opportu- 
nity of testing the quality of either the dominie 
was between the men. He threw them apart like 
children, and held each of them at arm’s length, 
almost as a father might separate two fighting 
schoolboys. The group watching could not re- 
frain a shout of enthusiasm, and old Tony Mus- 
grave jumped to his feet and threw his pipe and 
his cap in the air. 

“Dugald,” said the dominie to the shepherd, 
“go your ways to your sheep. I ’ll hae nae fight- 
ing in my parish. 

“Jim Armstrong, you thrawart bully you, 
dinna think you are the only man that kens Cum- 
berland cantrips. I could fling you mysel’ before 
you could tell your own name;” and as if to prove 
his words, he raised an immense stone, that few 
men could have lifted, and with apparent ease 
flung it over his right shoulder. A shout of as- 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 41 

tonisliment greeted the exploit, and Tony Mus- 
grave — whose keen, satirical ill-will had hitherto 
been Tallisker’s greatest annoyance — came frank- 
ly forward and said, ‘ ‘ Dominie, you are a guid 
fellow ! Will you tak some beer wi’ me?” 
Tallisker did not hesitate a moment. 

Thank you, Tony. If it be a drink o’ good- 
will, I ’ll tak it gladly.” 

But he was not inclined to prolong the scene; 
the interference had been forced upon him. It 
had been the only way to stop a quarrel which 
there would have been no healing if blood had 
once been shed. Yet he was keenly alive to the 
dignity of his office, and resumed it in the next 
moment. Indeed, the drinking of the glass of 
good-will together was rather a ceremonial than 
a convivial affair. Perhaps that also was the best. 
The men were silent and respectful, and for the 
first time lifted their caps with a hearty courtesy 
to Tallisker when he left them. 

“Weel ! Wonders never cease!” said Jim 
Armstrong scornfully. ‘ ‘ To see Tony Musgrave 
hobnobbing wi’ a black-coat I The deil must ’a’ 
had a spasm o’ laughing. ’ ’ 

“ Tet the deil laugh,” said Tony, with a snap 
of his grimy fingers. Then, after a moment’s 
pause, he added, “Tads, I heard this morning 
that the dominie’s wheat was spoiling, because 
6 


42 


SCOTTISH sketche:s. 


he couldna get help to cut it. I laughed when I 
heard it; I didna ken the man then. I’m going 
to-morrow to cut the dominie’s wheat; which o’ 
you will go wi’ me ?’ ’ 

“I !” and “I!” and “I !” was the hearty re- 
sponse; and so next day Traquare saw a strange 
sight — a dozen colliers in a field of wheat, making 
a real holiday of cutting the grain and binding the 
sheaves, so that before the next Sabbath it had all 
been brought safely home. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

But during these very days, when the domi- 
nie and his parishioners were drawing a step 
closer to each other, the laird and his son were 
drifting farther apart. Crawford felt keenly that 
Colin took no interest in the great enterprises 
which filled his own life. The fact was, Colin 
inherited his mother’s, and not his father’s tem- 
perament. The late Eady Crawford had been the 
daughter of a Zetland Udaller, a pure Scandina- 
vian, a descendant of the old Vikings, and she 
inherited from them a poetic imagination and a 
nature dreamy and inert, though capable of rou- 
sing itself into fits of courage that could dare the 
impossible. Colin would have led a forlorn hope 
or stormed a battery; but the bare ugliness and 
monotony of his life at the works fretted and wor- 
ried him. 

Tallisker had repeatedly urged a year’s for- 
eign travel. But the laird had been much averse 
to the plan. France, in his opinion, was a hot- 
bed of infidelity; Italy, of popery; Germany, of 
socialistic and revolutionary doctrines. There 
was safety only in Scotland. Pondering these 
things, he resolved that marriage was the proper 


44 


SCOTTISH SKETCH£:S. 


means to ‘‘settle” the lad. So he entered into 
communication with an old friend respecting his 
daughter and his daughter’s portion; and one 
night he laid the result before Colin. 

Colin was indignant. He wanted to marry no 
woman, and least of all women, Isabel McLeod. 

“ She ’ll hae ;^50,ooo !” said the laird senten- 
tiously. 

“ I would not sell myself for ^50,000.” 

“You’d be a vera dear bargain at half the 
price to any woman, Colin. And you never saw 
Isabel. She was here when you were in Glas- 
gow. She has the bonniest black e’en in Scot- 
land, and hair like a raven’s wing.” 

“When I marry, sir, I shall marry a woman 
like my mother: a woman with eyes as blue as 
heaven, and a face like a rose. I’ll go, as you 
did, to Shetland for her.” 

‘ ‘ There isna a house there fit for you to take 
a wife from, Colin, save and except the Earl’s 
ain; and his daughter, the Lady Selina, is near 
thirty years old. ’ ’ 

“There are my second cousins, Helga and 
SaxaVedder.” 

Then the laird was sure in his own heart that 
Tallisker’s advice was best. France and Italy 
were less to be feared than pretty, portionless 
cousins. Colin had better travel a year, and he 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 45 

proposed it. It hurt him to see how eagerly his 
heir accepted the offer. However, if the thing 
was to done, it was best done quickly. Letters 
of credit suitable to the young laird’s fortune 
were prepared, and in less than a month he was 
ready to begin his travels. It had been agreed 
that he should remain away one year, and if it 
seemed desirable, that his stay might even be 
lengthened to two. But no one dreamed that 
advantage would be taken of this permission. 

“He’ll be hamesick ere a twelvemonth, 
laird,” said the dominie; and the laird answered 
fretfully, “A twelvemonth is a big slice o’ life 
to fling awa in far countries. ’ ’ 

The night before Colin left he was walking 
with his sister on the moor. A sublime tranquil- 
lity was in the still September air. The evening 
crimson hung over the hills like a royal mantle. 
The old church stood framed in the deepest blue. 
At that distance the long waves broke without a 
sound, and the few sails on the horizon looked 
like white flowers at sea. 

‘ ‘ How beautiful is this mansion of our father !’ ’ 
said Helen softly. “One blushes to be caught 
worrying in it, and yet, Colin, I fear to have you 
go away.” 

“Why, my dear?” 

“I have a presentiment that we shall meet no 


46 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


more in this life. Nay, do not smile; this strange 
intelligence of sorrow, this sudden trembling in a 
soul at rest, is not all a delusion. We shall part 
to-morrow, Colin. Oh, darling brother, where 
shall we meet again?’’ 

He looked into the fair, tender face and the 
eager, questioning eyes, and found himself unable 
to reply. 

‘‘Remember, Colin! I give you a rendezvous 
in heaven.” 

He clasped her hand tightly, and they walked 
on in a silence that Colin remembered often after- 
wards. Sometimes, in dreams, to the very end of 
his life, he took again with Helen that last even- 
ing walk, and his soul leaned and hearkened after 
hers. ‘ ‘ I give you a rendezvous in heaven !’ ’ 

In the morning they had a few more words 
alone. She was standing looking out thought- 
fully into the garden. ‘ ‘ Are you going to lyOn- 
don?” she asked suddenly. 

“Yes.” 

“You will call on Mr. Selwyn?” 

“I think so.” 

“Tell him we remember him — and try to 
follow, though afar off, the example he sets us.” 

“Well, you know, Helen, I may not see him. 
We never were chums. I have often wondered 
why I asked him here. It was all done in a mo- 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 


47 

ment. I had thought of asking Walter Napier, 
and then I asked Selwyn. I have often thought 
it would have pleased me better if I had invited 
Walter.” 

“Sometimes it is permitted to us to do things 
for the pleasure of others, rather than our own. 
I have often thought that God — who foresaw the 
changes to take place here — sent Mr. Selwyn 
with a message to Dominie Tallisker. The 
dominie thinks so too. Then how glad you ought 
to be that you asked him. He came to prepare 
for those poor people who as yet were scattered 
over Ayrshire and Cumberland. And this thought 
comforts me for you, Colin. God knows just 
where you are going, dear, and the people you 
are going to meet, and all the events that will 
happen to you. ’ ’ 

The events and situations of life resemble 
ocean waves — every one is alike and yet every 
one is different. It was just so at Crawford Keep 
after Colin left it. The usual duties of the day 
were almost as regular as the clock, but little 
things varied them. There were letters or no let- 
ters from Colin ; there were little events at the 
works or in the village; the dominie called or he 
did not call. Occasionally there were visitors 
connected with the mines or furnaces, and some- 
times there were social evening gatherings of the 


48 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


neighboring young people, or formal state dinners 
for the magistrates and proprietors who were on 
terms of intimacy with the laird. 

For the first year of Colin’s absence, if his let- 
ters were not quite satisfactory, they were con- 
doned. It did not please his father that Colin 
seemed to have settled himself so completely in 
Rome, among “artists and that kind o’ folk,” 
and he was still more angry when Colin declared 
his intention of staying away another year. Poor 
father ! How he had toiled and planned to ag- 
grandize this only son, who seemed far more de- 
lighted with an old coin or an old picture than 
with the great works which bore his name. In 
all manner of ways he had made it clear to his 
family that in the dreamy, sensuous atmosphere 
of Italian life he remembered the gray earnestness 
of Scottish life with a kind of terror. 

Tallisker said, “Give him his way a little 
longer, laird. To bring him hame now is no use. 
People canna thole blue skies for ever; he’ll be 
wanting the moors and the misty corries and the 
gray clouds erelong.” So Colin had another year 
granted him, and his father added thousand to 
thousand, and said to his heart wearily many and 
many a time, “ It is all vexation of spirit.” 

At the end of the second year Crawford wrote 
a most important letter to his son. There was an 


CRAWFORD'S SAIR STRAIT. 


49 


opening for the family that might never come 
again. All arrangements had been made for Colin 
to enter the coming contest for a seat in Parlia- 
ment. The Marquis of B had been spoken to, 

and Crawford and he had come to an understand- 
ing. Crawford did not give the particulars of the 
‘ ‘ understanding, ’ ’ but he toldT^olin that his ‘ ‘ po- 
litical career was assured.” He himself would 
take care of the works. Political life was open to 
his son, and if money and influence could put him 
in the House of Peers, money should not be spared. 

The offer was so stupendous, the future it 
looked forward to so great, Crawford never doubt- 
ed Colin’s proud acquiescence. That much 
he owed to a long line of glorious ancestors ; it 
was one of the obligations of noble birth ; he 
would not dare to neglect it. 

Impatiently he waited Colin’s answer. In- 
deed, he felt sure Colin would answer such a call 
in person. He was disappointed when a letter 
came; he had not known, till then, how sure he 
had felt of seeing his son. And the letter was a 
simple blow to him. Very respectfully, but very 
firmly, the proposition was declined. Colin said 
he knew little of parties and cabals, and was cer- 
tain, at least, that nothing could induce him to 

serve under the Marquis of B . He could not 

se^xhis obligations to the dead Crawfords as his fa- 

7 


50 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


ther did. He considered his life his own. It had 
come to him with certain tastes, which he meant 
to improve and gratify, for only in that way was 
life of any value to him. 

The laird laid the letter in Tallisker’s hands 
without a word. He w^as almost broken-hearted. 
He had not yet got to that point where money- 
making for money’s sake -was enough. Family 
aggrandizement and political ambition are not 
the loftiest motives of a man’s life, but still they 
lift money-making a little above the dirty drudg- 
ery of mere accumulation. Hitherto Crawford 
had worked for an object, and the object, at least 
in his own eyes, had dignified the labor. 

In his secret heart he was angry at Colin’s 
calm respectability. A spendthrift prodigal, wast- 
ing his substance in riotous living, would have 
been easier to manage than this young man of 
aesthetic tastes, whose greatest extravagance was 
a statuette or a picture. Tallisker, too, was more 
uneasy than he would confess. He had hoped 
that Colin would answer his father’s summons, 
because he believed now that the life he was lead- 
ing was unmanning him. The poetical element 
in his character was usurping an undue mastery. 
He wrote to Colin very sternly, and told him 
plainly that a poetic pantheism was not a whit 
less sinful than the most vulgar infidelity. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 5 1 

Still he advised the laird to be patient, and by 
no means to answer Colin’s letter in a hurry. But 
time only fixed more firmly the angry father’s de- 
termination. Colin must come home and fulfil 
his wish, or he must remain away until he re- 
turned as master. As his son, he would know 
him no more; as the heir of Crawford, he would 
receive at intervals such information as pertained 
to that position. For the old man was just in his 
anger; it never seemed possible to him to deprive 
Colin of the right of his heritage. To be the 13th 
Laird of Crawford was Colin’s birthright; he fully 
recognized his title to the honor, and, as the fu- 
ture head of the house, rendered him a definite 
respect. 

Of course a letter written in such a spirit did 
no good whatever. Nothing after it could have 
induced Colin to come home. He wrote and de- 
clined to receive even the allowance due to him 
as heir of Crawford. The letter was perfectly 
respectful, but cruelly cold and polite, and every 
word cut the old man like a sword. 

For some weeks he really seemed to lose all 
interest in life. Then the result Tallisker feared 
was arrived at. He let ambition go, and settled 
down to the simple toil of accumulation. 


52 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER VI. 

But Crawford had not a miser’s nature. His 
house, his name, his children were dearer, after 
all, to him than gold. Hope springs eternal in 
the breast; in a little while he had provided him- 
self with a new motive : he would marry Helen 
to young Farquharson, and endow her so royally 
that Farquharson would gladly take her name. 
There should be another house of Crawford of 
which Helen should be the root. 

Helen had been long accustomed to consider 
Hugh Farquharson as her future husband. The 
young people, if not very eager lovers, were at 
least very warm and loyal friends. They had 
been in no hurry to finish the arrangement. 
Farquharson was in the Scot’s Greys; it was un- 
derstood that at his marriage he should resign his 
commission, so, though he greatly admired Hel- 
en, he \vas in no hurry to leave the delights of 
metropolitan and military life. 

But suddenly Crawford became urgent for the 
fulfilment of the contract, and Helen, seeing how 
anxious he was, and knowing how sorely Colin 
had disappointed him, could no longer plead for a 
delay. And yet a strange sadness fell over her ; 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 53 

some inexplicable symptoms as to lier health led 
her to fear she would never be Farquharson’s wife; 
the gay wedding attire that came from Edinburgh 
filled her with a still sorrow; she could not appro- 
priate any part of it as her own. 

One day when the preparations were nearly 
finished, Tallisker came up to the Keep. Helen, 
saw at once that he was moved by some intense 
feeling, and there was a red spot on his cheeks 
which she had been accustomed to associate with 
the dominie’s anger. The laird was sitting pla- 
cidly smoking, and drinking toddy. He had 
been telling Helen of the grand house he was go- 
ing to build on the new estate he had just bought; 
and he was now calmly considering how to carry 
out his plans on the most magnificent scale, for 
he had firmly determined there should be neither 
Keep nor Castle in the North Country as splendid 
as the new Crawfords’ Home. 

He greeted Tallisker with a peculiar kindness, 
and held his hand almost lovingly. His friend- 
ship for the dominie — if he had known it — was a 
grain of salt in his fast deteriorating life. He did 
not notice the dominie’s stem preoccupation, he 
was so full of his own new plans. He began at 
once to lay them before his old friend; he had 
that very day got the estimates from the Edin- 
burgh architect. 


54 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


Tallisker looked at them a moment with a 
gathering anger. Then he pushed them passion- 
ately away, saying in a voice that was almost a 
sob, ‘ ‘ I darena look at them, laird ; I darena look 
at them! Do you ken that there are fourteen 
cases o’ typhus in them colliers’ cottages you 
built ? Do you remember what Mr. Selwyn said 
about the right o’ laborers to pure air and pure 
water? I knew he was right then, and yet, God 
forgive me! I let you tak your ain way. Six lit- 
tle bits o’ bairns, twa women, and six o’ your pit 
men! You must awa to Athol instanter for doc- 
tors and medicines and brandy and such things as 
are needfu’. There isna a minute to lose, laird.” 

Helen had risen while he was speaking with 
a calm determination that frightened her father. 
He did not answer Tallisker, he spoke to her: 
‘ ‘ Where are you going, Helen ?’ ’ 

“Down to the village; I can do something 
till better help is got. ’ ’ 

“ Helen Crawford, you ’ll bide where you are ! 
Sit still, and I’ll do whatever Tallisker bids 
me.” 

Then he turned angrily to the dominie. 

“You are aye bringing me ill tidings. Am I 
to blame if death comes ?’ ’ 

“Am I my brother’s keeper? It’s an auld 
question, laird. The first murderer of a’ asked it. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 


55 


I ’m bound to say you are to blame. When you 
gie fever an invite to your cotters’ homes, you 
darena lay the blame on the Almighty. You 
should hae built as Mr. Selwyn advised.” 

‘‘Dominie, be quiet. I’m no a bairn, to be 
hectored o’er in this way. Say what I must do 
and I ’ll do it — anything in reason — only Helen. 
I’ll no hae her leave the Keep; that’s as sure 
as deathe. Sit down, Helen. Send a’ the wine 
and dainties you like to, but do n’t you stir a foot 
o’er the threshold.” 

His anger was, in its way, as authoritative as 
the dominie’s. Helen did as she was bid, more 
especially as Tallisker in this seconded the laird. 

“There is naething she could do in the vil- 
lage that some old crone could not do better. ’ ’ 

It was a bitterly annoying interruption to 
Crawford’s pleasant dreams and plans. He got 
up and went over to the works. He found things 
very bad there. Three more of the men had left 
sick, and there was an unusual depression in the 
village. The next day the tidings were worse. 
He foresaw that he would have to work the men 
half time, and there had never been so many 
large and peremptory orders on hand. It was all 
very unfortunate to him. 

Tallisker’ s self-reproaches were his own; he 
resented them, even while he acknowledged their 


5 ^ 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


truth. He wished he had built as Selwyn ad- 
vised ; he wished Tallisker had urged him more. 
It was not likely he would have listened to any 
urging, but it soothed him to think he would. 
And he greatly aggravated the dominie’s trouble 
by saying, 

‘ ‘ Why did ye na mak me do right, Tallisker ? 
You should hae been mair determined wi’ me, 
dominie.” 

During the next six weeks the dominie’s ef- 
forts were almost superhuman. He saw every 
cottage whitewashed; he was nurse and doctor 
and cook. The laird saw him carrying wailing 
babies and holding raving men in his strong 
arms. He watched over the sick till the last ray 
of hope fled; he buried them tenderly when all 
was over. The splendor of the man’s humanity 
had never shown itself until it stood erect and 
feared not, while the pestilence that walked in 
darkness and the destruction that wasted at noon- 
day dogged his every step. 

The laird, too, tried to do his duty. Plenty 
of people are willing to play the Samaritan with- 
out the oil and the twopence, but that was not 
Crawford’s way. Tallisker’ s outspoken blame 
had really made him tremble at his new responsi- 
bilities ; he had put his hand liberally in his 
pocket to aid the sufferers. Perhaps at the foun- 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 57 

dation of all lay one haunting thought — Helen ! 
If he did what he could for others, Helen would 
be safer. He never audibly admitted that Helen 
was in any danger, but — but — if there should be 
danger, he was, he hoped, paying a ransom for her 
safety. 

In six weeks the epidemic appeared to have 
spent itself. There was a talk of resuming full 
hours at the works. Twenty new hands had been 
sent for to fill vacant places. Still there was a 
shadow on the dominie’s face, and he knew him- 
self there was a shadow on his heart. Was it the 
still solemnity of death in which he had lately 
lived so much ? Or was it the shadow of a coming 
instead of a departing- sorrow ? 

One afternoon he thought he would go and 
sit with Helen a little while. During his close 
intimacy with the colliers he had learned many 
things which would change his methods of 
working for their welfare; and of these changes 
he wished to speak with Helen. She was just 
going for a walk on the moor, and he went with 
her. It was on such a September evening she 
had walked last with Colin. As they sauntered 
slowly, almost solemnly home, she remembered 
it. Some impulse far beyond her control or un- 
derstanding urged her to say, ‘ ‘ Dominie, when I 
am gone I leave Colin to you. ’ ’ 


58 


SCOTTISH sketche;s. 


He looked at her with a sudden enlighten- 
ment. Her face had for a moment a far-away, 
death-like predestination over it. His heart sank 
like lead as he looked at her. 

‘ ‘ Are you ill, Helen ?’ ’ 

‘‘ I have not been well for two weeks. 

He felt her hands; they were burning with 
fever. 

“I^et us go home,” she said, and then she 
turned and gave one long, mournful look at the 
mountains and the sea and the great stretch of 
moorland. Tallisker knew in his heart she was 
bidding farewell to them. He had no word to 
say. There are moods of the soul beyond all 
human intermeddling. 

The silence was broken by Helen. She 
pointed to the mountains. ‘ ‘ How steadfast they 
are, how familiar with forgotten years ! How 
small we are beside them !’ ’ 

“I don’t think so,” said Tallisker stoutly. 

‘ ‘ Mountains are naething to men. How small is 
Sinai when the man Moses stands upon it !” 

Then they were at the Keep garden. Helen 
pulled a handful of white and golden asters, and 
the laird, who had seen them coming, opened the 
door wide to welcome them. Alas ! Alas ! 
Though he saw it not, death entered with them. 
At midnight there was the old, old cry of despair 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 59 

and anguish, the hurrying for help, where no 
help was of avail, the desolation of a terror creep- 
ing hour by hour closer to the hearthstone. 

The laird was stricken with a stony grief 
which was deaf to all consolation. He wandered 
up and down wringing his hands, and crying out 
at intervals like a man in mortal agony. Helen 
lay in a stupor while the fever burned her young 
life away. She muttered constantly the word 
“Colin;” and Tallisker, though he had no hope 
that Colin would ever reach his sister, wrote for 
the young laird. 

Just before the last she became clearly, al- 
most radiantly conscious. She would be alone 
^with her father, and the old man, struggling 
bravely with his giftef, knelt down beside her. 
She whispered to him that there was a paper in 
the jewel-box on her table. He went and got it. 
It was a tiny scrap folded crosswise. ‘ ‘ Read it, 
father, when I am beyond all pain and grief. I 
shall trust you, dear.” He could only bow his 
head upon her hands and weep. 

“ Tallisker !” she whispered, and he rose soft- 
ly and called him. The two men stood together 
by her side. 

“ Is it well, my daughter ?” said the dominie, 
with a tone of tender triumph in his voice. “You 
fear not, Helen, the bonds of death?” 


6o 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“I trust in those pierced hands which have 
broken the bonds of death. Oh ! the unspeaka- 
ble riches!” 

These were her last words. Tallisker pra 3 ^ed 
softly as the mystical gray shadow stole over the 
fair, tranquil face. It was soon all over. 

“ She had outsoared the shadow of our night, 

And that unrest which men misname delight.” 

The bridal robes were folded away, the bride- 
groom went back to his regiment, the heartsore 
father tried to take up his life again. But it 
seemed to him to have been broken in two by the 
blow; and besides this, there was a little strip of 
paper which lay like a load upon his heart. It 
was the paper he had taken from Helen’s dying 
fingers, and it contained her last request: 

‘ ‘ Father, dear, dear father, whatever you in- 
tended to give me — I pray you — give it to God’s 
poor. 


HELEN.’ 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 


6l 


CHAPTER VII. 

The dominie had felt certain that Colin would 
answer his letter in person, but after a long si- 
lence he received it back again. Colin had left 
Rome, and left no trace behind him. The laird 
knew that Tallisker had written, and he too had 
been hoping and expecting. But he received the 
news of his son’s disappearance without remark. 
Life for some time was a dreary weight to him, he 
scarce felt as if he could lift it again. Hope after 
hope had failed him. He had longed so to be a 
rich man, had God in his anger granted him his 
wish? And was no other thing to prosper with 
him? All the same he clung to his gold with a 
deeper affection. When all other vices are old 
avarice is still young. As ambition and other 
motives died out, avarice usurped their places, 
and Tallisker saw with a feeling half angry, and 
half pitiful, the laird’s life dwindling down to 
this most contemptible of all aims. He kept his 
duty as proprietor constantly before the laird, but 
he no longer seemed to care that people should 
say, “Crawford’s men have the best laborers’ 
cottages in Scotland.” 


62 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“I hae made up my mind, Tallisker,” he 
said fretfully, ‘ ‘ the warld thinks more o’ the men 
who mak money than o’ those who gie it awa. ’ ’ 
Certainly this change was not a sudden one; for 
two years after Helen’s death it was coming slow- 
ly forward, yet there were often times when Tal- 
lisker hoped that it was but a temptation, and 
would be finally conquered. Men do not lose the 
noble savor of humanity in a moment. Even on 
the downward road good angels wait anxiously, 
and whisper in every better moment to the lap- 
sing soul, “ Return !” 

But there was a seed of bitterness in Craw- 
ford’s heart, that was poisoning the man’s spir- 
itual life — a little bit of paper, yet it lay like a 
great stone over his noblest feelings, and sealed 
them up as in a sepulchre. Oh, if some angel 
would come and roll it away ! He had never 
told the dominie of Helen’s bequest. He did not 
dare to destroy the slip of paper, but he hid it in 
the most secret drawer of his secretary. He told 
himself that it was only a dying sentiment in 
Helen to wish it, and that it would be a foolish 
superstition in him to regard it. Perhaps in those 
last moments she had not understood what she 
was asking. 

For a little while he found relief in this sug- 
gestion; then he remembered that the request 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 63 

must Have been dictated before the fever had con- 
quered her strength or judgment. The words 
were clearly written in Helen’s neat, precise 
manner; there was not a hesitating line in the 
whole. She had evidently written it with care 
and consideration. No one could tell how that 
slip of paper haunted him. Even in the darkness 
of its secret hiding-place his spiritual eyes saw 
it clearly day and night. 

To give to the poor all he had intended to 
give to Helen ! He could not ! He could not ! 
He could not do it ! Helen could not have known 
what she was asking. He had meant, in one way 
or another, to give her, as the founder of the new 
line of Crawfords, at least one hundred thousand 
pounds. Was it reasonable to scatter hither and 
yon such a large sum, earned, as he told himself 
pitifully, “by his ain wisdom and enterprise !” 

The dominie knew nothing of this terrible 
struggle going on ever in the man’s soul who sat 
by his side. He saw that Crawford was irritable 
and moody, but he laid the blame of it oh Colin. 
Oh,, if the lad would only write, he would go him- 
self and bring him back to his father, though he 
should have to seek him at the ends of the earth. 
But four years passed away, and the prodigal sent 
no backward, homeward sign. Every night, then, 
the laird looked a moment into the dominie’s 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


64 

face, and always the dominie shook his head. 
Ah, life has silences that are far more pathetic 
than death’s. 

One night Crawford said, almost in a whisper, 

“He’ll be dead, Tallisker.” 

And Tallisker answered promptly, 

• “He’ll come hame, laird.” 

No other words about Colin passed between 
the two men in four years. But destiny loves 
surprises. One night Tallisker laid a letter on 
the table. 

“It is for you, laird; read it.” 

It was a singular letter to come after so long a 
silence, and the laird’s anger was almost excu- 
sable. 

“Listen, Tallisker; did e’er you hear the 
like? 

“ ‘ Dear Father : I want, for a very lauda- 
ble purpose, /'4,ooo. It is not for myself in any 
way. If you will let me have it, I will trouble 
you with the proper explanations. If not, they 
will not be necessary. I have heard that you are 
well. I pray God to continue his mercy to you. 

^ “ ‘ Your dutiful son, 

“‘COLIN CRAWFORD.’ 

“‘Laudable purpose!’” cried the unhappy 
father, in a passion. “The lad is altogether too 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 65 

laudable. The letter is an insult, Tallisker. I’ll 
ne’er forgive him for it. Oh, what a miserable 
father I am !’ ’ 

And the dominie was moved to tears at the 
sight of his old friend’s bitter anguish. 

Still he asserted that Colin had meant it to be 
a kind letter. 

‘ ‘ Dinna tak want o’ sense for want o’ affec- 
tion, laird. The lad is a conceited prig. He’s 
set up wi’ himsel’ about something he is going to 
do. lyet him hae the money. I would show him 
you can gie as grandly as he can ask loftily.’^ 

And, somehow, the idea pleased the laird. It 
was something that Colin had been obliged to ask 
him for money at all. He sat down and wrote out 
a check for the amount. Then he enclosed it with 
these words: 

‘‘Son Cotin Crawford: I send you what 
you desire. I am glad your prospects are sae 
laudable; maybe it may enter your heart, some 
day, to consider it laudable to keep the Fifth 
Command. Your sister is dead. Fife is lonely, 
but I thole it. I want nae explanations. 

“ Your father, 

“ALEX. CRAWFORD.” 

“What’s the address, Tallisker?” 

“Regent’s Place, Tondon.” 

9 


66 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


The answer arrived in due time. It was as 
proper as a letter could be. Colin said he was 
just leaving for America, but did not expect to be 
more than six months there. But he never said 
a word about coming to Crawford. Tallisker was 
downright angry at the young man. It was true 
his father had told him he did not wish to see him 
again, but that had been said under a keen sense 
of family wrong and of bitter disappointment. 
Colin ought to have taken his father’s ready re- 
sponse to his request as an overture of reconcilia- 
tion. For a moment he was provoked with both 
of them. 

“You are a dour lot, you Crawfords; ane o’ 
you is prouder than the ither. ’ ’ 

“The Crawfords are as God made them, do- 
minie. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And some o’ them a little warse. ’ ’ 

Yet, after all, it was Colin Tallisker was really 
angry at. For the present he had to let his anger 
lie by. Colin had gone, and given him no address 
in America. 

“ He is feared I will be telling him his duty, 
and when he comes back that is what I shall do, 
if I go to London to mak him hear me. ’ ’ 

For a moment the laird looked hopefully into 
the dominie’s face, but the hope was yet so far off 
he could not grasp it. Yet, in a dim, unacknowl- 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 67 

edged way it influenced him. He returned to his 
money-making with renewed vigor. It was evi- 
dent he had let the hope of Colin’s return steal 
into his heart. And the giving of that ;^4,ooo 
Tallisker considered almost a sign of grace. It 
had not been given from any particularly noble 
motive; but any motive, not sinful, roused in op- 
position to simple avarice, was a gain. He was 
quite determined now to find Colin as soon as he 
returned from America. 

In rather less than six months there were a 
few lines from Colin, saying that the money sent 
had been applied to the proper purpose, and had 
nobly fulfilled it. The laird had said he wanted 
no explanations, and Colin gave him none. 

Tallisker read the letter with a half smile. 

“He is just the maist contrary, conceited 
young man I e’er heard tell o’. Laird, as he 
wont come to us, I am going to him.” 

The laird said nothing. Any grief is better 
than a grief not sure. It would be a relief to 
know all, even if that “all” were painful. 


68 


SCOTTISH ske:tches. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Tallisker was a man as quick in action as in 
resolve ; the next night he left for Eondon. It 
was no light journey in those days for a man of 
his years, and who had never in all his life been 
farther away from Perthshire than Edinburgh. 
But he feared nothing. He was going into the 
wilderness after his own stray sheep, and he had 
a conviction that any path of duty is a safe path. 
He said little to any one. The people looked 
strangely on him. He almost fancied himself to 
be Christian going through Vanity Fair. 

He went first to Colin’s old address in Re- 
gent’s Place. He did not expect to find him 
there, but it might lead him to the right place. 
Number 34 Regent’s Place proved to be a very 
grand house. As he went up to the door, an 
open carriage, containing a lady and a child, left 
it. A man dressed in the Crawford tartan opened 
the door. 

‘ ‘ Crawford ?’ ’ inquired Tallisker, “is he at 
home?” 

“Yes, he is at home and the servant ush- 
ered him into a carefully-shaded room, where 
marble statues gleamed in dusk corners and great 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 69 

flowering plants made the air fresh and cool. It 
was the first time Tallisker had ever seen a calla 
lily, and he looked with wonder and delight at 
the gleaming flowers. And somehow he thought 
of Helen. Colin sat in a great leathern chair 
reading. He did not lift his head until the door 
closed and he was sensible the servant had left 
some one behind. Then for a moment he could 
hardly realize who it was ; but when he did, he 
came forward with a glad cry. 

“ Dominie! O Tallisker!” 

“Just so, Colin, my dear lad. O Colin, you 
are the warst man I ever kenned. You had a 
good share o’ original sin to start wi’, but what 
wi’ pride and self-will and ill-will, the old trou- 
ble is sairly increased. ’ ’ 

Colin smiled gravely. “I think you misjudge 
me, dominie. ’ ’ Then refreshments were sent for, 
and the two men sat down for a long mutual con- 
fidence. 

Colin’s life had not been uneventful. He 
told it frankly, without reserve and without 
pride. When he quarrelled with his father about 
entering Parliament, he left Rome at once, and 
went to Canada. He had some idea of joining 
his lot with his own people there. But he found 
them in a state of suffering destitution. They 
had been unfortunate in their choice of location. 


70 


SCOTTISH SKCTCHKS. 


and were enduring an existence barer than the 
one they had left, without any of its redeeming 
features. Colin gave them all he had, and left 
them with promises of future aid. 

Then he went to New York. When he ar- 
rived, there was an intense excitement over the 
struggle then going on in the little republic of 
Texas. He found out something about the coun- 
try; as for the struggle, it was the old struggle of 
freedom against papal and priestly dominion. 
That was a quarrel for which Scotchmen have 
always been ready to draw the sword. It was 
Scotland’s old quarrel in the New World, and 
Colin went into it heart and soul. His reward 
had been an immense tract of the noble rolling 
Colorado prairie. Then he determined to bring 
the Crawfords down, and plant them in this 
garden of the Lord. It was for this end he had 
written to his father for ;^4,ooo. This sum had 
sufficed to transplant them to their new home, 
and give them a start. He had left them happy 
and contented, and felt now that in this matter he 
had absolved his conscience of all wrong. 

“But you ought to hae told the laird. It 
was vera ill-considered. It was his affair more 
than yours. I like the thing you did, Colin, but 
I hate the way you did it. One shouldna be self- 
ish even in a good wark.” 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 71 

“ It was the laird’s own fault; he would not 
let me explain.” 

‘ ‘ Colin, are you married ?’ ’ 

“Yes. I married a Boston lady. I have a 
son three years old. My wife was in Texas with 
me. She had a large fortune of her own. ’ ’ 

“ You are a maist respectable man, Colin, but 
I dinna like it at all. What are you doing wi’ 
your time ? This grand house costs something. ’ ’ 
“I am an artist — a successful one, if that is 
not also against me. ’ ’ 

“ Your father would think sae. Oh, my dear 
lad, you hae gane far astray from the old Craw- 
ford ways.” 

“I cannot help that, dominie. I must live 
according to my light. I am sorry about father. ’ ’ 
Then the dominie in the most forcible man- 
ner painted the old laird’s hopes and cruel disap- 
pointments. There were tears in Colin’s eyes as 
he reasoned with him. And at this point his own 
son came into the room. Perhaps for the first 
time Colin looked at the lad as the future heir of 
Crawford. A strange thrill of family and national 
pride stirred his heart. He threw the little fellow 
shoulder high, and in that moment regretted that 
he had flung away the child’s chance of being 
Earl of Crawford. He understood then something 
of the anger and suffering his father had endured. 


72 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


and he put the boy down very solemnly. For if 
Colin was anything, he was just; if his father had 
been his bitterest enemy, he would, at this mo- 
ment, have acknowledged his own aggravation. 

Then Mrs. Crawford came in. She had heard 
all about the dominie, and she met him like a 
daughter. Colin had kept his word. This fair, 
sunny-haired, blue-eyed woman was the wife he 
had dreamed about; and Tallisker told him he 
had at any rate done right in that matter. ‘ ‘ The 
bonnie little Republican,” as he called her, 
queened it over the dominie from the first hour of 
their acquaintance. 

He stayed a week in London, and during it 
visited Colin’s studio. He went there at Colin’s 
urgent request, but with evident reluctance. A 
studio to the simple dominie had almost the same 
worldly flavor as a theatre. He had many mis- 
givings as they went down Pall Mall, but he was 
soon reassured. There was a singular air of 
repose and quiet in the large, cool room. And 
the first picture he cast his eyes upon reconciled 
him to Colin’s most un-Crawford-like taste. 

It was ‘ ‘ The Farewell of the Emigrant Clan. ’ ’ 
The dominie’s knees shook, and he turned pale 
with emotion. How had Colin reproduced that 
scene, and not only reproduced but idealized it! 
There were the gray sea and the gray sky, and 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 73 

the gray granite boulder rocks on which the chief 
stood, the waiting ships, and the loaded boats, 
and he himself in the prow of the foremost one. 
He almost felt the dear old hymn thrilling through 
the still room. In some way, too, Colin had 
grasped the grandest points of his father’s char- 
acter. In this picture the man’s splendid physi- 
cal beauty seemed in some mysterious way to 
give assurance of an equally splendid spiritual 
nature. 

If this is making pictures, Colin, I ’ll no say 
but what you could paint a sermon, my dear lad. 
I hae ne’er seen a picture before.” Then he 
turned to another, and his sw’arthy face glowed 
with an intense emotion. There was a sudden 
sense of tightening in his throat, and he put his 
hand up and slowly raised his hat. It was Prince 
Charlie entering Edinburgh. The handsome, un- 
fortunate youth rode bareheaded amid the Gor- 
dons and the Murrays and a hundred Highland 
noblemen. The women had their children shoul- 
der high to see him, the citi2:ens, bonnets up, 
were pressing up to his bridle-rein. It stirred 
Tallisker like a peal of trumpets. With the tears 
streaming down his glowing face, he cried out, 
“How daur ye, sir! You are just the warst 
rebel between the seas I King George ought to 
hang you up at Carlisle-gate. And this is paint- 
10 


74 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


ing ! This is artist’s wark ! And you choose 
your subjects wisely, Colin: it is a gift the angels 
might be proud o’.” He lingered long in the 
room, and when he left it, ‘ ‘ Prince Charlie ’ ’ and 
the “Clan’s Farewell” were his own. They 
were to go back with him to the manse at 
Crawford. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 


75 


CHAPTER IX. 

It was, upon the whole, a wonderful week to 
Tallisker; he returned home with the determina- 
tion that the laird must recall his banished. He 
had tried to induce Colin to condone all past 
grievances, but Colin had, perhaps wisely, said 
that he could not go back upon a momentary 
impulse. The laird must know all, and accept 
him just as he was. He had once been requested 
not to come home unless he came prepared to 
enter into political life. He had refused the alter- 
native then, and he should refuse it again. The 
laird must understand these things, or the quarrel 
would probably be renewed, perhaps aggravated. 

And Tallisker thought that, in this respect, 
Colin was right. He would at any rate hide 
nothing from the laird, he should know all; and 
really he thought he ought to be very grateful 
that the “all” was so much better than might 
have been. 

The laird was not glad. A son brought down 
to eat the husk of evil ways, poor, sick, suppliant, 
would have found a far readier welcome. He 
would gladly have gone to meet Colin, even while 
he was yet a great way off, only he wanted Colin 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


76 

to be weary and footsore and utterly dependent 
on his love. He heard with a grim silence Tal- 
lisker’s description of the house in Regent’s Place, 
with its flowers and books, its statues, pictures, 
and conservatory. When Tallisker told him of 
the condition of the Crawfords in Canada, he was 
greatly moved. He was interested and pleased 
with the Texan struggle. He knew nothing of 
Texas, had never heard of the country, but Mex- 
icans, Spaniards, and the Inquisition were one in 
his mind. 

“That at least was Crawford-like,” he said 
warmly, when told of Colin’s part in the strug- 
gle. 

But the subsequent settlement of the clan there 
hurt him terribly. ‘ ‘ He should hae told me. He 
shouldna hae minded what I said in such a case. 
I had a right to know. Colin has used me vera 
hardly about this. Has he not, Tallisker ?’ ’ 

“Yes, laird, Colin was vera wrong there. He 
knows it now.” 

“What is he doing in such a grand house? 
How does he live?” 

“He is an artist — a vera great one, I should 
say. ’ ’ 

“ He paints pictures for a living ! He ! A 
Crawford o’ Traquare ! I’ll no believe it, Tal- 
lisker. ’ ’ 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 77 

“ There ’s naught to fret about, laird. You ’ll 
ken that some day. Then his wife had money. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ His wife ! Sae he is married. That is o’ a 
piece wi’ the rest. Wha is she ?’ ’ 

“ He married an American — a Boston lady.” 
Then the laird’s passion was no longer con- 
trollable, and he said some things the dominie 
was very angry at. 

‘ ‘ Laird, ’ ’ he answered, ‘ ‘ Mrs. Colin Crawford 
is my friend. You’ll no daur to speak any way 
but respectful o’ her in my presence. She is as 
good as any Crawford that ever trod the heather. 
She came o’ the English Hampdens. Whar will 
ye get better blood than that ?’ ’ 

“No Hampdens that ever lived — ” 

“Whist! Whist, laird! The Crawfords are 
like a’ ither folk; they have twa legs and twa 
hands. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He should hae married a Scots lass, though 
she had carried a milking-pail.” 

“ Laird, let me tell you there will be nae spe- 
cial heaven for the Gael. They that want to go 
to heaven by themsel’s arena likely to win there 
at a’. You may as well learn to live with ither 
folk here; you’ll hae to do it to a’ eternity.” 

“If I get to heaven. Dominie Tallisker, I’ll 
hae special graces for the place. I ’m no going to 
put mysel’ in a blaming passion for you to-night. 


78 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


Yon London woman has bewitched you. She’s 
wanting to come to the Keep, I ’ll warrant.” 

“If ye saw the hame she has you wouldna 
warrant your ain word a minute longer, laird. 
And I’m sure I dinna see what she would want 
to hae twa Crawfords to guide for. One is mair 
than enough whiles. It ’s a wonder to me how 
good women put up wi’ us at all !” 

Humff said the laird scornfully. “Too 
many words on a spoiled subject.” 

“I must say one mair, though. There is a 
little lad, a bonnie, brave, bit fellow, your ain 
grandson, Crawford.” 

“An American Crawford!” And the laird 
laughed bitterly. ‘ ‘ A foreigner 1 an alien ! a 
Crawford born in England ! Guid-night, Tallis- 
ker ! We’ll drop the subject, an it please you.” 

Tallisker let it drop. He had never expected 
the laird to give in at the first cry of “Surren- 
der.” But he reflected that the winter was com- 
ing, and that its long nights would give plenty of 
time for thought and plenty of opportunities for 
further advocacy. He wrote constantly to Colin 
and his wife, perhaps oftener to Mrs. Crawford 
than to the young laird, for she was a woman of 
great tact and many resources, and Tallisker be- 
lieved in her. 

Crawford had said a bitter word about her 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 79 

coming to the Keep, and Tallisker could not help 
thinking what a blessing she would be there; for 
one of Crawford’s great troubles now was the 
wretchedness of his household arrangements. The 
dainty cleanliness and order which had ruled it 
during Helen’s life were quite departed. The gar- 
den was neglected, and all was disorder and dis- 
comfort. Now it is really wonderful how much 
of the solid comfort of life depends upon a well- 
arranged home, and the home must depend upon 
some woman. Men may mar the happiness of a 
household, but they cannot make it. Women are 
the happiness makers. The laird never thought 
of it in this light, but he did know that he w^as 
very uncomfortable. 

“ I canna even get my porridge made right,” 
he said fretfully to the dominie. 

“You should hae a proper person o’er them 
ne’er-do-weel servants o’ yours, laird. I ken one 
that will do you. ’ ’ 

“Wha is she?” 

‘ ‘ A Mrs. Hope. ’ ’ 

“A widow?” 

“No, not a widow, but she is not living with 
her husband. ’ ’ 

“Then she’ll ne’er win into my house, do- 
minie. ’ ’ 

“She has good and sufficient reasons. I up- 


8o 


SCOOTISH sketches. 


hold her. Do you think I would sanction aught 
wrong, laird?” 

No more was said at that time, but a month 
afterwards Mrs. Hope had walked into the Keep 
and taken everything in her clever little hands. 
Drunken, thieving, idle servants had been re- 
placed by men and women thoroughly capable 
and efficient. The laird’s tastes were studied, 
his wants anticipated, his home became bright, 
restful, and quiet. The woman was young and 
wonderfully pretty, and Crawford soon began to 
watch her with a genuine interest. 

‘‘She’ll be ane o’ the Hopes o’ Beaton,” he 
thought; “she is vera like them.” 

At any rate he improved under her sway, for 
being thoroughly comfortable himself, he was in- 
clined to have consideration for others. 

One afternoon, as he came from the works, it 
began to snow. He turned aside to the manse to 
borrow a plaid of Tallisker. He very seldom 
went to the manse, but in the keen, driving snow 
the cheerful fire gleaming through the window 
looked very inviting. He thought he would go 
in and take a cup of tea with Tallisker. 

“ Come awa in, laird,” cried old Janet, “come 
awa in. You are a sight good for sair e’en. The 
dominie will be back anon, and I ’ll gie ye a drap 
o’ hot tay till he comes.” 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 8 1 

So the laird went in, and the first thing he saw 
was Colin’s picture of “The Clan’s Farewell.” 
It moved him to his very heart. He divined at 
once whose work it was, and he felt that it was 
wonderful. It must be acknowledged, too, that 
he was greatly pleased with Colin’s conception of 
himself. 

“I’m no a bad-looking Crawford,” he thought 
complacently; “the lad has had a vera clear no- 
tion o’ what he was doing. ’ ’ 

Personal flattery is very subtle and agreeable. 
Colin rose in his father’s opinion that hour. 

Then he turned to Prince Charlie. How 
strange is that vein of romantic loyalty marbling 
the granite of Scotch character ! The common- 
place man of coal and iron became in the presence 
of his ideal prince a feudal chieftain again. His 
heart swelled to that pictured face as the great sea 
swells to the bending moon. He understood in 
that moment how his fathers felt it easy to pin on 
the white cockade and give up everything for an 
impossible loyalty. 

The dominie found him in this mood. He 
turned back to every-day life with a sigh. 

“Weel, dominie, you are a man o’ taste. 
When did you begin buying pictures?” 

* ‘ I hae no money for pictures, laird. The art- 
ist gave me them.” 


II 


83 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“You mean Colin Crawford gave you them.” 

‘ ‘ That is what I mean. ’ ’ 

“Weel, I’m free to say Colin kens how to 
choose grand subjects. I didna think there was 
so much in a picture. I wouldna dare to keep 
that poor dear prince in my house. I shouldna 
be worth a bawbee at the works. It was a won- 
derin’ wise step, that forbidding o’ pictures in the 
kirks. I can vera weel see how they would lead 
to a sinfu’ idolatry. ’ ’ 

“Yes, John Knox kent well the temper o’ the 
metal he had to work. There ’s nae greater hero- 
worshippers than Scots folk. They are aye ma- 
king idols for themsel’s. Whiles it’s Wallace, 
then it’s Bruce or Prince Charlie; nay, there are 
decent, pious folk that gie Knox himsel’ a honor- 
ing he wouldna thank them for. But, laird, there 
is a mair degraded idolatry still — that o’ gold. 
We are just as ready as ever the Jews were to fall 
down before a calf, an’ it only be a golden one. ’ ’ 

“ Let that subject alane, dominie. It will tak 
a jury o’ rich men to judge rich men. A poor 
man isna competent. The rich hae straits the 
poor canna fathom. ’ ’ 

And then he saw in light as clear as crystal a 
slip of paper hid away in a secret drawer. 

Just at this moment a little lad bairn entered 
the room ; a child with bright, daring eyes, and a 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 83 

comically haughty, confident manner. He at- 

tracted Crawford’s attention at once. 

“What ’s your name, my wee man?” 

‘ ‘ Alexander is my name. ’ ’ 

“ That is my name.” 

“It is not,” he answered positively; “don’t 
say that any more. ’ ’ 

“ Will you hae a sixpence?” 

“Yes, I will. Money is good. It buys sweet- 
ies.” 

“Whose boy is that, dominie?” 

“Mrs. Hope’s. I thought he would annoy 
you. He is a great pleasure to me. ’ ’ 

“ lyCt him come up to the Keep whiles. I’ll 
no mind him.” 

When he rose to go he stood a moment before 
each picture, and then suddenly asked, 

“ Whar is young Crawford?” 

‘ ‘ In Rome. ’ ’ 

“A nice place for him to be ! He ’d be in Bab- 
ylon, doubtless, if it was on the face o’ the earth.” 

When he went home he shut himself in his 
room and almost stealthily took out that slip of 
paper. It had begun to look yellow and faded, 
and Crawford had a strange fancy that it had a 
sad, pitiful appearance. He held it in his hand a 
few moments and then put it back again. It 
would be the new year soon, and he would decide 


84 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


then. He had made similar promises often ; they 
always gave him temporary comfort. 

Then gradually another element of pleasure 
crept into his life — Mrs. Hope’s child. The boy 
amused him; he never resented his pretty, au- 
thoritative ways; a queer kind of companionship 
sprang up between them. It was one of perfect 
equality every way ; an old man easily becomes 
a little child. And those who only knew Craw- 
ford among coals and pig iron would have been 
amazed to see him keeping up a mock dispute 
with this baby. 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 


85 


CHAPTER X. 

One day, getting towards the end of Decem- 
ber, the laird awoke in a singular mood. He 
had no mind to go to the works, and the weather 
promised to give him a good excuse. Over the 
dreary hills there was a mournful floating veil of 
mist. Clouds were flying rapidly in great masses, 
and showers streaming through the air in disor- 
dered ranks, driven furiously before a mad wind — 
a wind that before noon shook the doors and win- 
dows, and drove the bravest birds into hiding. 
The laird wandered restlessly up and down. 
‘‘There is the dominie,” cried Mrs. Hope, 
about one o’clock. “What brings him here 
through such a storm ?’ ’ 

Crawford walked to the door to meet him. 
He came striding over the soaking moor with his 
plaid folded tightly around him and his head bent 
before the blast. He was greatly excited. 

“Crawford, come wi’ me. The Athol pas- 
senger packet is driving before this wind, and 
there is a fishing smack in her wake. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Gie us some brandy wi’ us, Mrs. Hope, and 
you’ll hae fires and blankets and a’ things need- 
fu’ in case 0’ accident, ma’am.” He was putting 


86 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


on his bonnet and plaid as he spoke, and in five 
minutes the men were hastening to the seaside. 

It was a deadly coast to be on in a storm with 
a gale blowing to land. A long reef of sharp 
rocks lay all along it, and now the line of foam- 
ing breakers was to any ship a terrible omen of 
death and destruction. The packet was almost 
helpless, and the laird and Tallisker found a 
crowd of men waiting the catastrophe that was 
every moment imminent. 

“ She ought to hae gien herseP plenty o’ sea 
room,” said the laird. He was half angry to see 
all the interest centred on the packet. The little 
fishing cobble was making, in his opinion, a far 
more sensible struggle for existence. She was 
managing her small resources with desperate 
skill. 

“Tallisker,” said the laird, “you stay here 
with these men. Rory and I are going half a 
mile up the coast. If the cobble drives on shore, 
the current will take a boat as light as she is over 
the Bogie Rock and into the surf yonder. There 
are doubtless three or four honest men in her, 
quite as weel worth the saving as those stranger 
merchant bodies that will be in the packet. ’ ’ 

So Crawford and Rory hastened to the point 
they had decided on, and just as they reached it 
the boat became unmanageable. The wind took 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 8/ 

her in its teeth, shook her a moment or two like a 
thing of straw and rags, and then flung her, keel 
upwards, on the Bogie Rock. Two of the men 
were evidently good swimmers; the others were a 
boy and an old man. Crawford plunged boldly 
in after the latter. The waves buffeted him, and 
flung him down, and lifted him up, but he was a 
fine surf swimmer, and he knew every rock on 
that dangerous coast. After a hard struggle, all 
were brought safe to land. 

Then they walked back to where the packet 
had been last seen. She had gone to pieces. A 
few men waited on the beach, picking up the 
dead, and such boxes and packages as were dashed 
on shore. Only three of all on board had been 
rescued, and they had been taken to the Keep for 
succor and rest. 

The laird hastened home. He had not felt as 
young for many years. The struggle, though one 
of life and death, had not wearied him like a day’s 
toil at the works, for it had been a struggle to 
which the soul had girded itself gladly, and helped 
and borne with it the mortal body. He came in 
all glowing and glad ; a form lay on his own 
couch before the fire. The dominie and Mrs. 
Hope were bending over it. As he entered, Mrs. 
Hope sprang forward — 

“Father!” 


88 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


‘‘Eh? Father? What is this?’ 

“Father, it is Colin.” 

Then he knew it all. Colin stretched out a 
feeble hand towards him. He was sorely bruised 
and hurt, he was white and helpless and death- 
like. 

“Father !” 

And the father knelt down beside him. Wife 
and friend walked softly away. In the solemn 
moment when these two long-parted souls met 
again there was no other love that could inter- 
meddle. 

“ My dear father — forgive me !” 

Then the laird kissed his recovered son, and 
said tenderly, 

‘ ‘ Son Colin, you are all I have, and all I have 
is yours. ’ ’ 

“ Father, my wife and son.” 

Then the ®ld man proudly and fondly kissed 
Hope Crawford too, and he clasped the little lad 
in his arms. He was well pleased that Hope had 
thought it worth while to minister to his comfort, 
and let him learn how to know her fairly. 

“But it was your doing, Tallisker, I ken it 
was; it has your mark on it.” And he grasped 
his old friend’s hand with a very hearty grip. 

“Not altogether, laird. Colin had gone to 
Rome on business, and you were in sair discom- 


crav/ford’s sair strait. 89 

fort, and I just named it to Mrs. Hope. After a’ 
it was lier proposal. Naebody but a woman 
would liae thought o’ such a way to win round 
you. ’ ’ 

Perhaps it was well that Colin was sick and 
very helpless for some weeks. During them the 
two men learned to understand and to respect 
each other’s peculiarities. Crawford himself was 
wonderfully happy; he would not let any thought 
of the past darken his heart. He looked forward 
as hopefully as if he were yet on the threshold of 
life. 

O mystery of life! from what depths proceed 
thy comforts and thy lessons! One morning at 
very early dawn Crawford awoke from a deep 
sleep in an indescribable awe. In some vision of 
the night he had visited that piteous home which 
memory builds, and where only in sleep we walk. 
Whom had he seen there? What message had 
he received? This he never told. He had 
been ‘ ‘ spoken to. ’ ’ 

Tallisker was not the man to smile at any 
such confidence. He saw no reason why God’s 
messengers should not meet his children in the 
border-land of dreams. Thus he had counselled 
and visited the patriarchs and prophets of old. 
He was a God who changeth not; and if he had 
chosen to send Crawford a message in this way, it 
12 


90 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


was doubtless some special word, for some special 
duty or sorrow. But he had really no idea of 
what Crawford had come to confess to him. 

‘ ‘ Tallisker, I hae been a man in a sair strait 
for many a year. I hae not indeed hid the Lord’s 
talent in a napkin, but I hae done a warse thing; 
I hae been trading wi’ it for my ain proper advan- 
tage. O dominie, I hae been a wretched man 
through it all. Nane ken better than I what a 
hard master the deil is. ’ ’ 

Then he told the dominie of Helen’s bequest. 
He went over all the arguments with which he 
had hitherto quieted his conscience, and he anx- 
iously watched their effect upon Tallisker. He 
had a hope even yet that the dominie might 
think them reasonable. But the table at which 
they sat was not less demonstrative than Tallis- 
ker’ s face; for once he absolutely controlled him- 
self till the story was told. Then he said to 
Crawford, 

“ I ’ll no tak any responsibility in a matter be- 
tween you and your conscience. If you gie it, 
gie it without regret and without holding back. 
Gie it cheerfully ; God loves a cheerful giver. 
But it isna wi’ me you’ll find the wisdom to 
guide you in this matter. Shut yoursel’ in your 
ain room, and sit down at the foot o’ the cross 
and think it out. It is a big sum to gie away, 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 91 

but maybe, in the face o’ that stupendous Sacri- 
fice it willna seem so big. I’ll walk up in the 
evening, laird ; perhaps you will then hae deci- 
ded what to do.” 

Crawford was partly disappointed. He had 
hoped that Tallisker would in some way take the 
burden from him — he had instead sent him to the 
foot of the cross. He did not feel as if he dared 
to neglect the advice; so he went thoughtfully to 
his own room and locked the door. Then he 
took out his private ledger. Many a page had 
been written the last ten years. It was the book 
of a very rich man. He thought of all his en- 
gagements and plans and hopes, and of how the 
withdrawal of so large a sum would affect them. 

Then he took out Helen’s last message, and 
sat down humbly with it where Tallisker had 
told him to sit. Suddenly Helen’s last words 
came back to him, “Oh! the unspeakable riches!” 
What of? The cross of Christ — the redemption 
from eternal death — the promise of eternal life! 

Sin is like a nightmare; when we stir under 
it, we awake. Crawford sat thinking until his 
heart burned and softened, and great tears rolled 
slowly down his cheeks and dropped upon the pa- 
per in his hands. Then he thought of the rich- 
ness of his own life — Colin and Hope, and the al- 
ready beloved child Alexander — of his happy 


92 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


home, of the prosperity of his enterprises, of his 
loyal and loving friend Tallisker. What a con- 
trast to the Ivife he had been told to remember! 
that pathetic I^ife that had not where to lay its 
head, that mysterious agony in Gethsemane, that 
sublime death on Calvary, and he cried out, “O 
Christ ! O Saviour of my soul ! all that I have 
is too little!” 

When Tallisker came in the evening, Hope 
noticed a strange solemnity about the man. He, 
too, had been in the presence of God all day. He 
had been praying for his friend. But as soon as 
he saw Crawford he knew how the struggle had 
ended. Quietly they grasped each other’s hand, 
and the evening meal was taken by Colin’s side 
in pleasant cheerfulness. After it, when all were 
still, the laird spoke: 

‘ ‘ Colin and Hope, I hae something I ought co 
tell you. When your sister Helen died she asked 
me to gie her share o’ the estate to the poor 
children of our Father. I had intended giving 
Helen ;^ioo,ooo. It is a big sum, and I hae been 
in a sair strait about it. What say you, Colin?” 

‘ ‘ My dear father, I say there is only one way 
out of that strait. The money must be given as 
Helen wished it. Helen was a noble girl. It 
was just like her.” 

“Ah, Colin, if you could only tell what a bur- 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. 93 

den this bit o’ paper has been to me ! I left the 
great weight at the foot o’ the cross this morning. ’ ’ 
As he spoke the paper dropped from his fingers 
and fell upon the table. Colin lifted it reverent- 
ly, and kissed it. “Father,” he said, “may I 
keep it now? The day will come when the 
Crawfords will think with more pride of it than 
of any parchment they possess. ’ ’ 

Then there was an appeal to Tallisker about 
its disposal. “Laird,” he answered, “such a 
sum must be handled wi’ great care. It is not 
enough to gie money, it must be gien wisely.” 
But he promised to take on himself the labor of 
inquiry into different charities, and the considera- 
tion of what places and objects needed help most. 
“But, Crawford,” he said, “if you hae any 
special desire, I think it should be regarded. ’ ’ 
Then Crawford said he had indeed one. 
When he was himself young he had desired 
greatly to enter the ministry, but his father had 
laid upon him a duty to the family and estate 
which he had accepted instead. 

“Now, dominie,” he said, “canna I keep 
aye a young man in my place?” 

“ It is a worthy thought, Crawford. ’ ’ 

So the first portion of Helen’s bequest went 
to Aberdeen University. This endowment has 
sent out in Crawford’s place many a noble young 


94 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


man into the harvest-field of the world, and who 
shall say for how many centuries it will keep his 
name green in earth and heaven ! The distribu- 
tion of the rest does not concern our story. It 
may safely be left in Dominie Tallisker’s hands. 

Of course, in some measure it altered Craw- 
ford’s plans. The new house was abandoned and 
a wing built to the Keep for Colin’s special use. 
In this portion the young man indulged freely 
his poetic, artistic tastes. And the laird got to 
like it. He used to tread softly as soon as his 
feet entered the large shaded rooms, full of skil- 
ful lights and white gleaming statues. He got 
to enjoy the hot, scented atmosphere and rare 
blossoms of the conservatory, and it became a 
daily delight to him to sit an hour in Colin’s 
studio and watch the progress of some favorite 
picture. 

But above all his life was made rich by his 
grandson. Nature, as she often does, reproduced 
ill the second generation what she had totally 
omitted in the first. The boy was his grandfather 
over again. They agreed upon every point. It 
was the laird who taught Alexander to spear a 
salmon, and throw a trout-line, and stalk a deer. 
They had constant confidences about tackle and 
guns and snares. They were all day together on 
the hills. The works pleased the boy better than 


crawj'ord’s sair strait. 95 

liis father’s studio. He trotted away with his 
grandfather gladly to them. The fires and molten 
metal, the wheels and hammers and tumult, were 
all enchantments to him. He never feared to 
leap into a collier’s basket and swing down the 
deep, black shaft. He had also an appreciative 
love of money; he knew just how many sixpences 
he owned, and though he could give if asked to 
do so, he always wanted the dominie to give him 
a good reason for giving. The child gave him 
back again his youth, and a fuller and nobler one 
than he himself had known. 

And God was very gracious to him, and length- 
ened out this second youth to a green old age. 
These men of old Gaul had iron constitutions; 
they did not begin to think themselves old men 
until they had turned fourscore. It was thirty 
years after Helen’s death when Tallisker one 
night sent this word to his life-long friend, 

“I hae been called, Crawford; come and see 
me once more.” 

They all went together to the manse. The 
dominie was in his ninety-first year, and he was 
going home. No one could call it dying. He 
had no pain. He was going to his last sleep 
“ As sweetly as a child, 

Whom neither thought disturbs nor care encumbers, 
Tired with long play, at close of summer’s day 
Lies down and slumbers.” 


96 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


‘ ‘ Good-by, Crawford — for a little while. We ’ 11 
liae nae tears. I hae lived joyfully before my God 
these ninety years; I am going out o’ the sun- 
shine into the sunshine. Crawford, through that 
sair strait o’ yours you hae set a grand, wide-open 
door for a weight o’ happiness. I am glad ye 
didna wait. A good will is a good thing, but a 
good life is far better. It is a grand thing to sow 
your ain good seed. Nae ither hand could hae 
done it sae well and sae wisely. Far and wide 
there are lads and lasses growing up to call you 
blessed. This is a thought to mak death easy, 
Crawford. Good-night, dears. ’ ’ 

And then “God’s finger touched him and he 
slept.” 

Crawford lived but a few weeks longer. After 
the dominie’s death he simply sat waiting. His 
darling Alexander came home specially to bright- 
en these last hours, and in his company he showed 
almost to the last hour the true Crawford spirit. 

“ Alexander,” he would say, “ you ’ll ding for 
your ain side and the Crawfords always, but you’ll 
be a good man; there is nae happiness else, dear. 
Never rest, my lad, till sit where your fathers 
sat in the House o’ Peers. Stand by the State 
and the Kirk, and fear God, Alexander. The 
lease o’ the Cowden Knowes is near out; don’t 
renew it. Grip tight what ye hae got, but pay 


CRAWFORD’S SAIR STRAIT. ' 97 

every debt as if God wrote the bill. Remember 
the poor, dear lad. Charity gies itsel’ rich. 
Riches mak to themselves wings, but charity 
clips the wings. The love o’ God, dear, the love 
o’ God — that is the best o’ all. ’ ’ 

Yes, he had a sair struggle with his lower 
nature to the very last, but he was constantly 
strengthened by the conviction of a “Power closer 
to him than breathing, nearer than hands or feet. ’ ’ 
Nine weeks after the dominie’s death they found 
him sitting in his chair, fallen on that sleep whose 
waking is eternal day. His death was like Tal- 
lisker’s — a perfectly natural one. He had been 
reading. The Bible lay open at that grand pero- 
ration of St. Paul’s on faith, in the twelfth of He- 
brews. The “great cloud of witnesses,” “ the sin 
which doth so easily beset us,” “Jesus, the Author 
and Finisher of our faith” — these were probably 
his last earthly thoughts, and with them he passed 
into 

“ That perfect presence of His face 
Which we, for want of words, call heaven.” 


13 



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JAMES BLACKIE'S REVENGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

Fe:w people who have travelled will deny 
that of all cities Glasgow is apparently the least 
romantic. Steeped in wet, white mist, or wrapped 
in yellow fog vapor, all gray stone and gray sky, 
dirty streets, and sloppy people, it presents none 
of the features of a show town. Yet it has great 
merits; it is enterprising, persevering, intensely 
national, and practically religious; and people 
who do not mind being damp have every chance 
to make a good living there. Even the sombre 
appearance of the dark gray granite of which it 
is built is not unsuitable to the sterling character 
of its people; for though this stone may be dull 
and ugly, there is a natural nobility about it, and 
it never can be mean. 

I have said that, as a city, Glasgow is practi- 
cally religious, and certainly this was the case 
something less than half a century ago. The 
number of its churches was not more remarkable 


102 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


ttian the piety and learning of its clergy ; and the 
‘ ‘ skailing ’ ’ of their congregations on a Sabbath 
afternoon was one of the most impressive sights, 
of its kind, in the world. 

My true little story opens with the skailing of 
the Ramshorn Kirk, a very favorite place of wor- 
ship with the well-to-do burghers of the east end 
of the city, and it was a peculiarly douce, decent, 
solemn-looking crowd that slowly and reverently 
passed out of its gates into the absolutely silent 
streets. For no vehicles of any kind disturbed 
the Sabbath stillness, and not until the people 
had gone some distance from the house of God 
did they begin to think their own thoughts, and 
with a certain grave reserve put them into words. 

Among the groups who proceeded still far- 
ther east, towards the pleasant houses facing the 
“Green,’’ one alone was remarkable enough to 
have elicited special notice from an observing 
stranger. It consisted of an old man and a young 
girl, evidently his daughter. Both were stri- 
kingly handsome, and the girl was much better 
dressed than the majority of women who took the 
same road. Fong before they reached the Green 
they were joined by a younger man, whom the 
elder at once addressed in a reproving voice. 

“Ye didna pay as much attention to the ser- 
mon as it behooved ye to do, James Blackie; and 


JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE. IO3 

what for did ye speak to Robert Laird almost 
within ‘ the Gates’ ?’’ 

“ I only asked if he had heard of the ‘ Bonnie 
Bess;’ she is overdue five days, and eight good 
men in her, not to speak of the cargo.” 

‘‘It’s no cannie to be aye asking questions. 
Sit still and the news will come to ye: forbye, 
I’m no sure if yon was a lawfu’ question; the 
Sabbath sun hasna set yet. ’ ’ 

James Blackie mechanically turned to the 
west, and then slowly let his glance fall on the 
lovely face at his side. 

“Christine,” he asked softly, “how is all 
with you ?’ ’ 

“All is well, James.” 

Not another \yord was spoken until they 
reached David Cameron’s home. He was care- 
fully reconsidering the sermon — going over every 
point on his finger ends, lest he should drop any 
link of the argument; and James and Christine 
were listening to his criticisms and remarks. 
They all stopped before a shop over the windows 
of which was painted, ‘ ‘ David Cameron, Dealer 
in Fine Teas;” and David, taking a large key 
from his pocket, opened the door, and said, 

“ Come in and eat wi’ us, James; ye ken ye ’re 
welcome. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Our friendship, Mr. Cameron, is a kind of 


104 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

Montgomery division — all on one side, nothing 
on the other; but I am ‘so by myself’ that I 
thank you heartily. ’ ’ 

So David, followed by Christine and James, 
passed slowly through the darkened store, with 
its faint smells of Eastern spices and fragrant teas, 
into the little parlor beyond. The early winter 
night had now fallen, and the room, having only 
an outlet into a small court, would have been 
dark also but for the red glow of the ‘ ‘ covered ’ ’ 
fire. David took the poker and struck the great 
block of coal, and instantly the cheerful blaze 
threw an air of cosey and almost picturesque com- 
fort over the homelike room. 

The two men sat down beside the fire, spread- 
ing their hands to its warmth, and apparently 
finding their own thoughts excellent company, 
for neither of them spoke or moved until Chris- 
tine reappeared. She had divested herself of the 
handsome black satin and velvet which formed 
her kirk suit; but in her long, plain dress of gray 
winsey, with a snowy lawn kerchief and cuffs, 
she looked still more fair and lovable. 

James watched her as she spread the cloth 
and produced from various cupboards cold meats 
and pastries, bread and cakes, and many kinds of 
delicate preserves and sweetmeats. Her large, 
shapely hands among the gold-and-white china 


JAMES EEACKIE’S REVENGE. lOJ 

fascinated him, while her calm, noiseless, un- 
hurried movements induced a feeling of passive 
repose that it required an effort to dispel, when 
she said in a low, even voice, 

“ Father, the food is waiting for the blessing.’’ 

It was a silent but by no means an unhappy 
meal. David was a good man, and he ate his 
food graciously and gratefully, dropping now and 
then a word of praise or thanks; and James felt 
it delightful enough to watch Christine. For 
James, though he had not yet admitted the fact 
to his own heart, loved Christine Cameron as 
men love only once, with that deep, pure affec- 
tion that has perchance a nearer kindred than this 
life has hinted of. 

He thought her also exquisitely beautiful, 
though this opinion would not have been in- 
dorsed by a majority of men. For Christine had 
one of those pale, statuesque faees apt to be sol- 
emn in repose; its beauty was tender and twi- 
light, its expression serious and steadfast, and 
her clear, spiritual eyes held in them no light of 
earthly passion. She had grown up in that little 
back parlor amid the din and tumult of the city, 
under the gray, rainy skies, and surrounded by 
care and sin, as a white lily grows out of the 
dark, damp soil, drawing from the elements 
around only sweetness and purity. 

14 


I06 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

She was very silent this afternoon, but appa- 
rently very happy. Indeed, there was an expres- 
sion on her face which attracted her father’s atten- 
tion, and he said, 

“The sermon has pleased thee well, I see, 
Christine. ’ ’ 

“The sermon was good, but the text was 
enough, father. I think it over in my heart, and 
it leaves a light on all the common things of life.” 
And she repeated it softly, “ O Thou preserver of 
men, unto Thee shall all flesh come. ’ ’ 

David lifted his bonnet reverently, and James, 
who was learned in what the Scotch pleasantly 
call ‘ ‘ the humanities, ’ ’ added slowly, 

“ ‘ But I, the mortal, 

Planted so lowly, with death to bless me, 

I sorrow no longer.’ ” 

When people have such subjects of conversa- 
tion, they talk moderately — for words are but 
poor interpreters of emotions whose sources lie in 
the depths of eternity. But they were none 
the less happy, and James felt as if he had been 
sitting at one of those tables which the Lord 
“prepareth in the wilderness,” where the “cup 
runneth over” with joy and content. 

Such moments rarely last long; and it is 
doubtful if we could bear to keep the soul always 
to its highest bent. When Christine had sided 


JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE. lOJ 

away the dishes and put in order the little room, 
David laid down his pipe, and said, “ The Tord’s 
day being now over, I may speak anent my ain 
matters. I had a letter, Christine, on Saturday, 
from my brother-in-law, McFarlane. He says 
young Donald will be in Glasgow next week. ’ ’ 

‘‘Will he stay here, father?’’ 

“Na, na; he’ll bide wi’ the McFarlanes. 
They are rich folk; but siller is nae sin — an’ it 
be clean- won siller.” 

“Then why did Uncle McFarlane write to 
you, father?” 

“He wrote concerning the lad’s pecuniary 
matters, Christine. Young Donald will need 
gude guiding; and he is my sister Jessie’s only 
bairn — blood is thicker than water, ye’ll allow 
that — and Donald is o’ gentle blood. I ’m no say- 
ing that’s everything; but it is gude to come o’ 
a gude kind. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The McFarlanes have aye been for the pope 
and the Stuarts,” said James, a little scornfully. 
“They were ‘out’ in the ‘79’; and they would 
pin the white cockade on to-morrow, if there was 
ever a Stuart to bid them do it.” 

“Maybe they would, James. Hielandmen 
hae a way o’ sticking to auld friends. There’s 
Camerons I wadna go bail for, if Prince Char- 
lie could come again; but let that flea stick to 


I08 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

the wah And the McFarlanes arena exactly 
papist noo; the twa last generations hae been 
^ ’Piscopals — that’s ane step ony way towards the 
truth. Luther mayna be John Knox, but they ’ll 
win up to him some time, dootless they will. ’ ’ 

“How old is young McFarlane?” asked 
James. 

“He is turned twenty — a braw lad, his father 
says. I hae ne’er seen him, but he’s Jessie’s 
bairn, and my heart gaes out to meet him.” 

“Why did you not tell me on Saturday, fa- 
ther? I could have spoken for Maggie Maclean 
to help me put the house in order. ’ ’ 

“I didna get the letter till the evening post. 
It was most as good as Sabbath then. House- 
cleaning is an unco temptation to women-folk, so 
I keepit the news till the Sabbath sun was weel 
set.” 

During this conversation James Blackie’s heart 
had become heavy with some sad presentiment of 
trouble, such as arise very naturally in similar 
circumstances. As a poet says, 

“ Ah, no ! it is not all delusion, 

That strange intelligence of sorrow 
Searching the tranquil heart’s seclusion, 

Making us quail before the morrow. 

’T is the farewell of happiness departing, 

The sudden tremor of a soul at rest ; 

The wraith of coming grief upstarting 
Within the watchful breast.” 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 109 

He listened to David Cameron’s reminiscences 
of his bonnie sister Jessie, and of the love match 
she had made with the great Highland chieftain, 
with an ill-disguised impatience. He had a 
Ivowlander’s scorn for the thriftless, fighting, 
freebooting traditions of the Northern clans and 
a Calvinist’s dislike to the Stuarts and the Stuarts’ 
faith; so that David’s unusual emotion was ex- 
ceedingly and, perhaps, unreasonably irritating 
to him. He could not bear to hear him speak 
with trembling voice and gleaming eyes of the 
grand mountains and the silent corries around 
Ben-Nevis, the red deer trooping over the misty 
steeps, and the brown hinds lying among the 
green plumes of fern, and the wren and the thrush 
lilting in song together. 

“Oh, the bonnie, bonnie Hielands!” cried 
David with a passionate affection ; “ it is always 
Sabbath up i’ the mountains, Christine. I maun 
see them once again ere I lay by my pilgrim- 
staff and shoon for ever. ’ ’ 

“Then you are not Glasgow born, Mr. Cam- 
eron,” said James, with the air of one who finds 
out something to another’s disadvantage. 

“Me! Glasgo’ born! Na, na, man! I was 
born among the mountains o’ Argyle. It was a 
sair downcome fra them to the Glasgo’ pavements. 
But I ’m saying naething against Glasgo’. I was 


no 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


but thinking o’ the days when I wore the tartan 
and climbed the hills in the white dawns, and, 
kneeling on the top o’ Ben Na Keen, saw the sun 
sink down wi’ a smile. It ’s little ane sees o’ 
sunrising or sunsetting here, James,” and David 
sighed heavily and wiped away the tender mist 
from his sight. 

James looked at the old man with some con- 
tempt; he himself had been born and reared in 
one or other of the closest and darkest streets of 
the city. The memories of his loveless, hard- 
worked childhood were bitter to him, and he 
knew nothing of the joy of a boyhood spent in 
the hills and woods. 

‘ ‘ Life is the same everywhere, Mr. Cameron. 
I dare say there is as much sin and as much worry 
and care among the mountains as on the Glasgow 
pavements. ’ ’ 

“You may ‘daur say’ it, James, but that 
winna mak it true. Even in this warld our Fa- 
ther’s house has many mansions. Gang your way 
up and up through thae grand solitudes and ye’ll 
blush to be caught worrying among them.” 

And then in a clear, jubilant voice he broke 
into the old Scotch version of the 121st Psalm: 

“ I to the hills will lift mine eyes 

from whence doth come mine aid ; 

My safety cometh from the Lord, 
who heaven and earth hath made.” 


JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE. Ill 

And he sang it to that loveliest of all psalm 
tunes, RathiePs “St. Mary’s.” It was impossi- 
ble to resist the faith, the enthusiasm, the melody. 
At the second bar Christine’s clear, sweet voice 
joined in, and at the second line James was ma- 
king a happy third. 

“ Henceforth thy goings out and in 
God keep for ever will.” 

“ Thae twa lines will do for a ‘Gude-night,’ ” 
said David in the pause at the end of the psalm, 
and James rose with a sigh and wrapped his plaid 
around him. 


II2 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER II. 

James had gone into the house so happy and 
hopeful, he left it so anxious and angry — yes, an- 
gry. He knew well that he had no just cause for 
anger, but that knowledge only irritated him the 
more. Souls, as well as bodies, are subject to 
malignant diseases, and to-night envy and jeal- 
ousy were causing James Blackie more acute suf- 
fering than any attack of fever or contagion. A 
feeling of dislike towards young Donald McFar- 
lane had taken possession of his heart; he lay 
awake to make a mental picture of the youth, 
and then he hated the picture he had made. 

Feverish and miserable, he went next morning 
to the bank in which he was employed, and en- 
deavored amid the perplexities of compound in- 
terest to forget the anxieties he had invented for 
himself. But it was beyond his power, and he 
did not pray about them; for the burdens we bind 
on our own shoulders we rarely dare to go to God 
with, and James might have known from this cir- 
cumstance alone that his trouble was no lawful 
one. He nursed it carefully all day and took it 
to bed with him again at night. The next day 
he had begun to understand how envy grew to 


JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE. II3 

hatred, and hatred to murder. Still he did not go 
to God for help, and still he kept ever before his 
eyes the image of the youth that he had deter- 
mined was to be his enemy. 

On Thursday night he could no longer bear 
his uncertainties. He dressed himself carefully 
and went to David Cameron’s. David was in his 
shop tasting and buying teas, and apparently ab- 
sorbed in business. He merely nodded to James, 
and bid him “walk through.” He had no in- 
tention of being less kindly than usual, but James 
was in such a suspicious temper that he took his 
preoccupation for coolness, and so it was almost 
with a resentful feeling he opened the half-glass 
door dividing the shop from the parlor. 

As his heart had foretold him, there sat the 
youth whom he had determined to hate, but his 
imagination had greatly deceived him with re- 
gard to his appearance. He had thought of Don- 
ald only as a “fair, false Highlander” in tartan, 
kilt, and philibeg. He found him a tall, dark 
youth, richly dressed in the prevailing Southern 
fashion, and retaining no badge of his country’s 
costume but the little Glengary cap with its chief- 
tain’s token of an eagle’s feather. His manners 
were not rude and haughty, as James had decided 
they would be ; they were singularly frank and 
pleasant. Gracious and graceful, exceedingly 

15 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


II4 

handsome and light-hearted, he was likely to 
prove a far more dangerous rival than even 
James’ jealous heart had anticipated. 

He rose at Christine’s introduction, and offered 
his hand with a pleasant smile to James. The 
latter received the courtesy with such marked 
aversion that Donald slightly raised his eyebrows 
ere he resumed his interrupted conversation with 
Christine. And now that James sat down with a 
determination to look for offences he found plen- 
ty. Christinf • 'as ‘^'^wing, and Donald sat beside 
her winding nding her threads, playing 

with her hou‘ -, or teasingly hiding her scis- 
sors. Christine, half pleased and half annoyed, 
gradually fell into Donald’s mood, and her still 
face dimpled into smiles. James very quickly 
decided that Donald presumed in a very offen- 
sive manner on his relationship to Christine. 

A little after nine o’clock David, having 
closed his shop, joined them in the parlor. He 
immediately began to question James about the 
loss of the “Bonnie Bess,” and from that subject 
they drifted easily into others of a local business 
interest. It was very natural that Donald, being 
a stranger both to the city and its business, should 
take no part in this discourse, and that he should, 
in consequence, devote himself to Christine. But 
James felt it an offence, and rose much earlier 


JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE. II5 

than was his wont to depart. David stayed him, 
almost authoritatively: 

“Ye maun stop, baith o’ ye lads, and join in 
my meat and worship. They are ill visitors that 
canna sit at ane board and kneel at ane altar. ’ ’ 

For David had seen, through all their drifting 
talk of ships and cargoes, the tumult in James’ 
heart, and he did not wish him to go away in an 
ungenerous and unjust temper. So both Donald 
and James partook of the homely supper of pease 
brose and butter, oatmeal r fresh milk, 

and then read aloud with ' Christine the 

verses of the evening Psalm ^me to each in 

turn. James was much softened by the exercise; 
so much so that when Donald asked permission 
to walk with him as far as their way lay together, 
he very pleasantly acceded to the request. And 
Donald was so bright and unpretentious it was 
almost impossible to resist? the infectious good 
temper which seemed to be his characteristic. 

Still James was very little happier or more 
restful. He lay awake again, but this night it 
was not to fret and fume, but to calmly think 
over his position and determine what was best 
and right to do. For James still thought of 
“right,” and would have been shocked indeed if 
any angel of conscience had revealed to him the 
lowest depths of his desires and intentions. In 


Il6 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

the first place, he saw that David would tolerate 
no element of quarrelling and bitterness in his 
peaceful home, and that if he would continue to 
visit there he must preserve the semblance of 
friendship for Donald McFarlane. In the second, 
he saw that Donald had already made so good his 
lien upon his uncle’s and cousin’s affections that 
it would be very hard to make them believe 
wrong of the lad, even if he should do wrong, 
though of this James told himself there would 
soon be abundance. 

“For the things David will think sinful be- 
yond all measure,” he argued, “will seem but 
Puritanical severity to him; forbye, he is rich, gay, 
handsome, and has little to do with his time, he’ll 
get well on to Satan’s ground before he knows 
it;” and then some whisper dim and low in his 
soul made him blush and pause and defer the fol- 
lowing out of a course which was to begin in such 
a way. 

So Donald and he fell into the habit of meet- 
ing at David’s two or three nights every week, 
and an apparent friendship sprang up between 
them. It was only apparent, however. On Don- 
ald’s side was that good-natured indifference that 
finds it easy enough to say smooth words, and is 
not ready to think evil or to take offence ; on 
James’ part a wary watchfulness, assuming the 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 1 1? 

role of superior wisdom, half admiring and half 
condemning Donald’s youthful spirits and ways. 

David was quite deceived; he dropped at once 
the authoritative manner which had marked his 
displeasure when he perceived James’ disposition 
to envy and anger; he fell again into his usual 
pleasant familiar talks with the young man, for 
David thought highly of James as of one likely to 
do his duty to God and himself. 

In these conversations Donald soon began to 
take a little share, and when he chose to do so, 
evinced a thought and shrewdness which greatly 
pleased his uncle ; more generally, however, he 
was at Christine’s side, reading her some poem 
he had copied, or telling her about some grand 
party he had been at. Sometimes James could 
catch a few words of reproof addressed in a gentle 
voice to Donald by Christine; more often he heard 
only the murmur of an earnest conversation, or 
Christine’s low laugh at some amusing incident. 

The little room meanwhile had gradually be- 
come a far brighter place. Donald kept it sweet 
and bright with his daily offerings of fresh flow- 
ers; the pet canary he had given Christine twit- 
tered and sang to her all the day through. Over 
Christine herself had come the same bright change; 
her still, calm face often dimpled into smiles, her 
pale-gold hair was snooded with a pretty ribbon. 


Il8 SCOTTISH sketches. 

and her dress a little richer. Yet, after all, the 
change was so slight that none but a lover would 
have noticed it. But there was not a smile or a 
shade of brighter color that James did not see ; 
and he bore it with an equanimity which used 
often to astonish himself, though it would not 
have done so if he had dared just once to look 
down into his heart; he bore it because he knew 
that Donald was living two lives — one that Chris- 
tine saw, and one that she could not even have 
imagined. 

It was, alas, too true that this gay, good-na- 
tured young man, who had entered the fashiona- 
ble world without one bad habit, was fast becom- 
ing proficient in all its follies and vices. That 
kind of negative goodness which belonged natu- 
rally to I'im, unfortified by strict habits and strong 
principles, had not been able to repel the seduc- 
tions and temptations that assail young men, rich, 
handsome, and well-born. There was an evil tri- 
umph in James’ heart one night when Donald said 
to him, as they walked home after an evening at 
David’s, 

“Mr. Blackie, I wish you could lend me £ 20 , 
I am in a little trouble, and I cannot ask Uncle 
David for more, as I have already overdrawn my 
father’s allowance.” 

James loaned it with an eager willingness. 


JAMKS BI.ACKI]S’S RE:vENGE. 


II9 

though he was usually very cautious and careful 
of every bawbee of his hard-earned money. He 
knew it was but the beginning of confidence, and 
so it proved; in a very little while Donald had 
fallen into the habit of going to James in every 
emergency, and of making him the confidant of 
all his youthful hopes and follies. 

James even schooled himself to listen patiently 
to Donald’s praises of his cousin Christine. “She 
is just the wife I shall need when I settle down in 
three or four years,” Donald would say compla- 
cently, ‘ ‘ and I think she loves me. Of course no 
man is worthy of such a woman, but when I have 
seen life a little I mean to try and be so.” 

“Umph!” answered James scornfully, “do 
you suppose, Mr. McFarlane, that ye’ll be fit for 
a pure lassie like Christine Cameron when you 
have played the prodigal and consorted with fool- 
ish women, and wasted your substance in riotous 
living?” 

And Donald said with an honest blush, ‘ ‘ By 
the memory of my mother, no, I do not, James. 
And I am ashamed when I think of Christine’s 
white soul and the stained love I have to offer it. 
But women forgive ! Oh, what mothers and wives 
and sisters there are in this world !” 

“Well, don’t try Christine too far, Donald. 
She is of an old Covenanting stock; her conscience 


120 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


feels sill afar off. I do not believe she would mar- 
ry a bad, worldly man, though it broke her heart 
to say ‘No.’ I have known her far longer than 
you have. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Tut, man, I love her ! I know her better in 
an hour than you could do in a lifetime ’ and 
Donald looked rather contemptuously on the plain 
man who was watching him with eyes that might 
have warned any one more suspicious or less con- 
fident and self-satisfied. 


JAMES BLACKIE’S revenge. 


I2I 


CHAPTER III. 

The summer brought some changes. Chris- 
tine went to the seaside for a few weeks, and 
Donald went away in Eord Neville’s yacht with 
a party of gay young men; James and David 
passed the evenings generally together. If it was 
wet, they remained in the shop or parlor; if fine, 
they rambled to the ‘ ‘ Green, ’ ’ and sitting down 
by the riverside talked of business, of Christine, 
and of Donald. In one of these confidential ram- 
bles James first tried to arouse in David’s mind a 
suspicion as to his nephew’s real character. Da- 
vid himself introduced the subject by speaking of 
a letter he had received from Donald. 

“He ’s wi’ the great Earl o’ Egremont at pres- 
ent,” said David proudly, for he had all a Scots- 
man’s respect for good birth; “and there is wi’ 
them young Argyle, and Eord Lovat, and ithers 
o’ the same quality. But our Donald can cock 
his bonnet wi’ ony o’ them; there is na better 
blood in Scotland than the McFarlanes’. It taks 
money though to foregather wi’ nobeelity, and 
Donald is wanting some. So, James, I ’ll gie ye 
the siller to-night, and ye’ll send it through your 
bank as early as may be in the morn. ’ ’ 
i6 


123 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


‘ ‘ Donald wanting money is an old want, Mr. 
Cameron.” 

David glanced quickly at James, and answered 
almost haughtily, “ It’s a common want likewise, 
James Blackie. But if Donald McFarlane wants 
money, he’s got kin that can accommodate him, 
James; wanters arena always that fortunate.” 

‘ ‘ He has got friends likewise, Mr. Cameron ; 
and I am sure I was proud enough to do him a 
kindness, and he knows it well. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And how much may Donald be owing you, 
I wonder?” 

“ Only a little matter of £20, You see he had 
got into — ” 

“ Dinna fash yoursel’ wi’ explanations, James. 
Dootless Donald has his faults; but I may weel 
wink at his small faults, when I hae sae mony 
great faults o’ my ain. ’ ’ 

And David’s personal accusation sounded so 
much like a reproof, that James did not feel it 
safe to pursue the subject. 

That very night David wrote thus to his 
nephew: 

‘‘Donald, my dear lad, if thou owest James 
Blackie £20^ pay it immediate. Dying is the 
second vice, owing money is the first. I enclose 
draft for £^o instead o’ £^o^ as per request.” 

That ;^ 7 o was a large sum in the eyes of the 


jame:s blackie’s revenge. 123 

careful Glasgow trader; in the young Highland- 
er’s eyes it seemed but a small sum. He could 
not form any conception of the amount of love it 
represented, nor of the struggle it had cost David 
to ‘ ‘ gie awa for nae consideration ’ ’ the savings 
of many days, perhaps weeks, of toil and thought. 

In September Christine came back, and to- 
wards the end of October, Donald. He was 
greatly improved externally by his trip and his 
associations — more manly and more handsome — 
while his manners had acquired a slight touch of 
hauteur that both amused and pleased his uncle. 
It had been decided that he should remain in 
Glasgow another winter, and then select his 
future profession. But at present Donald trou- 
bled himself little about the future. He had 
returned to Christine more in love with the peace 
and purity of her character than ever; and be- 
sides, his pecuniary embarrassments in Glasgow 
were such as to require his personal presence 
until they were arranged. 

This arrangement greatly troubled him. He 
had only a certain allowance from his father — a 
loving but stern man — who having once decided 
what sum was sufficient for a young man in Don- 
ald’s position, would not, under any ordinary cir- 
cumstances, increase it. David Cameron had 
already advanced him James Blackie was 


124 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


a resource lie did not care again to apply to. In 
the meantime he was pressed by small debts on 
every hand, and was living among a class of 
young men whose habits led him into expenses 
far beyond his modest income. He began to be 
very anxious and miserable. In Christine’s pres- 
ence he was indeed still the same merry-hearted 
gentleman; but James saw him in other places, 
and he knew from long experience the look of 
care that drew Donald’s handsome brows to- 
gether. 

One night, towards the close of this winter, 
James went to see an old man who was a broker 
or trader in bills and money, doing business in 
the Cowcaddens. James also did a little of the 
same business in a cautious way, and it was some 
mutual transaction in gold and silver that took 
him that dreary, soaking night into such a lo- 
cality. 

The two men talked for some time in a low 
and earnest voice, and then the old man, opening 
a greasy leather satchel, displayed a quantity of 
paper which he had bought. James looked it 
over with a keen and practised eye. Suddenly 
his attitude and expression changed; he read over 
and over one piece of paper, and every time he 
read it he looked at it more critically and with a 
greater satisfaction. 


JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE. 125 

“Andrew Starkie,” he said, “where did you 
buy this ?’ ’ 

“ Weel, James, I bought it o’ I^aidlaw — Aleck 
Laidlaw. Ye wadna think a big tailoring place 
like that could hae the wind in their faces; but 
folks maun hae their bad weather days, ye ken; 
but it blew me gude, so I ’ll ne’er complain. Ye 
see it is for ;^89, due in twenty days now, and I 
only gied for it — a good name too, nane 
better. ’ ’ 

“David Cameron! But what would he be 
owing Laidlaw ;^89 for clothes for?” 

‘ ‘ Tut, tut 1 The claithes were for his neph- 
ew. There was some trouble anent the bill, 
but the old man gied a note for the amount at 
last, at three months. It’s due in twenty days 
now. As he banks wi’ your firm, ye may col- 
lect it for me; it will be an easy-made penny or 
twa.” 

“I would like to buy this note. What will 
you sell it for?” 

“I’m no minded to sell it. What for do ye 
want it ?’ ’ 

“Nothing particular. I’ll give you £<^o for 
it.” 

“If it’s worth that to you, it is worth mair. 
I ’ill no minded to tak £^oy 

“ I ’ll give you ;^95.’’ 


126 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


‘‘I’m no minded to tak it. It’s worth mair 
to you, I see that. What are you going to mak 
by it? I ’ll sell it for half o’ what you are count- 
ing on. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then you would not make a bawbee. I am 
going to ware ;^95 on — on a bit of revenge. Now 
will you go shares ?’ ’ 

“Not I. Revenge in cold blood is the deil’s 
own act. I dinna wark wi’ the deil, when it’s 
a losing job to me.” 

“Will you take ;^95 then ?” 

“No. When lads want whistles they maun 
pay for them.” 

“I’ll give no more. For why? Because in 
twenty days you will do my work for me; then it 
will cost me nothing, and it will cost you ;^89, 
that is all about it, Starkie.” 

Starkie lifted the note which James had flung 
carelessly down, and his skinny hands trembled 
as he fingered it. “This is David Cameron’s 
note o’ hand, and David Cameron is a gude 
name. ’ ’ 

“Yes, very good. Only that is not David 
Cameron’s writing, it is a — forgery. Tight your 
pipe with it, Andrew Starkie.” 

‘ ‘ His nephew gave it himsel’ to Aleck Laid- 
la w — ’ ’ 

“I know. And I hate his nephew. He has 


JAMKS BLACKIE’S RHVKNGE. 127 

come between me and Christine Cameron. Do 
you see now ?’ ’ 

“Oh! oh ! oh ! I see, I see! Well, James, 
you can have it for ;^ioo — as a favor.’* 

“I don’t want it now. He could not have a 
harder man to deal with than you are. You suit 
me very well.” 

“James, such business wont suit me. I can’t 
afford to be brought into notice. I would rather 
lose double the money than prosecute any gentle- 
man in trouble.” 

The older man had reasoned right — James 
dared not risk the note out of sight, dared not 
trust to Starkie’s prosecution. He longed to 
have the bit of paper in his own keeping, and 
after a wary battle of a full hour’s length Andrew 
Starkie had his £8g back again, and James had 
the note in his pocket-book. 

Through the fog, and through the wind, and 
through the rain he went, and he knew nothing, 
and he felt nothing but that little bit of paper 
against his breast. Oh, how greedily he remem- 
bered Donald’s handsome looks and stately ways, 
and all the thousand little words and acts by 
which he imagined himself wronged and insulted. 
Now he had his enemy beneath his feet, and for 
several days this thought satisfied him, and he 
hid his secret morsel of vengeance and found it 


128 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


sweet — sharply, bitterly sweet — for even yet con- 
science pleaded hard with him. 

As he sat counting his columns of figures, 
ever}^ gentle, forgiving word of Christ came into 
his heart. He knew well that Donald would 
receive his quarterly allowance before the bill 
was due, and that he must have relied on this to 
meet it. He also knew enough of Donald’s 
affairs to guess something of the emergency that 
he must have been in ere he would have yielded 
to so dangerous an alternative. There were times 
when he determined to send for Donald, show 
him the frightful danger in which he stood, and 
then tear the note before his eyes, and leave its 
payment to his honor. He even realized the 
peace which would flow from such a deed. Nor 
were these feelings transitory, his better nature 
pleaded so hard with him that he walked his 
room hour after hour under their influence, and 
their power over him was such as delayed all ac- 
tion in the matter for nearly a week. 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 


129 


CHAPTER IV. 

At length one morning David Cameron came 
into the bank, and having finished his business, 
walked up to James and said, “I feared ye were 
ill, James. Whatna for hae ye stayed awa sae 
lang? I wanted ye sairly last night to go o’er 
wi’ me the points in this debate at our kirk. We 
are to hae anither session to-night; ye’ll come 
the morn and talk it o’er wi’ me?” 

“I will, Mr. Cameron.” 

But James instantly determined to see Chris- 
tine that night. Her father would be at the kirk, 
session, and if Donald was there, he thought he 
knew how to whisper him away. He meant to 
have Christine all to himself for an hour or two, 
and if he saw any opportunity he would tell her 
all. When he got to David’s the store was still 
open, but the clerk said, “David has just gone,” 
and James, as was his wont, walked straight to 
the parlor. 

Donald was there; he had guessed that, be- 
cause a carriage was in waiting, and he knew it 
could belong to no other caller at David Cam- 
eron’s. And never had Donald roused in him 
such an intense antagonism. He was going to 

17 


130 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

some National Celebration, and he stood beside 
Christine in all the splendid picturesque pomp of 
the McFarlane tartans. He was holding Chris- 
tine’s hand, and she stood as a white lily in the 
glow and color of his dark beauty. Perhaps both 
of them felt James’ entrance inopportune. At 
any rate they received him coldly, Donald drew 
Christine a little apart, said a few whispered 
words to her, and lifting his bonnet slightly to 
James, he went away. 

In the few minutes of this unfortunate meet- 
ing the devil entered into James’ heart. Even 
Christine was struck with the new look on his 
face. It was haughty, malicious, and trium- 
phant, and he leaned against the high oaken 
chimney-piece in a defiant way that annoyed 
Christine, though she could not analyze it. 

“Sit down, James,” she said with a touch of 
authority — for his attitude had unconsciously put 
her on the defensive. “Donald has gone to the 
Caledonian club; there is to be a grand gathering 
of Highland gentlemen there to-night.” 

‘ ‘ Gentlemen P ’ 

“Well, yes, gentlemen! And there will be 
none there more worthy the name than our Don- 
ald.” 

‘ ‘ The rest of them are much to be scorned at, 
then.” 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. I31 

‘‘James, James, that speech was little like 
you. Sit down and co;ne to yourself; I am sure 
you are not so mean as to grudge Donald the 
rights of his good birth.’’ 

“Donald McFarlane shall have all the rights 
he has worked for; and when he gets his just 
payment he will be in Glasgow jail.” 

“James, you are ill. You have not been 
here for a week, and you look so unlike your- 
self. I know you must be ill. Will you let me 
send for our doctor ?’ ’ And she approached him 
kindly, and looked with anxious scrutiny into his 
face. 

He put her gently away, and said in a thick, 
rapid voice, 

“Christine, I came to-night to tell you that 
Donald McFarlane is unworthy to come into your 
presence — ^he has forged your father’s name.” 

“James, you are mad, or ill, what you say is 
just impossible!” 

‘ ‘ I am neither mad nor ill. I will prove it, if 
you wish.” 

At these words every trace of sympath}^ or 
feeling vanished from her face; and she said in a 
low, hoarse whisper, 

“You cannot prove it. I would not believe 
such a thing possible. ’ ’ 

Then with a pitiless particularity he went 


132 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


over all the events relating to the note, and held 
it oi^t for her to examine the signature. 

“Is that David Cameron’s writing?” he cried; 
‘ ‘ did you ever see such a weak imitation ? The 
man is a fool as well as a villain.” 

Christine ga^ed blankly at the witness of her 
cousin’s guilt, and James, carried away with the 
wicked impetuosity of his passionate accusations 
of Donald’s life, did not see the fair face set in 
white despair and the eyes close wearily, as with 
a piteous cry she fell prostrate at his feet. 

Ah, how short was his triumph ! When he 
saw the ruin that his words had made he shrieked 
aloud in his terror and agony. Help was at hand, 
and doctors were quickly brought, but she had re- 
ceived a shock from which it seemed impossible 
to revive her. David was brought home, and 
knelt in speechless distress by the side of his in- 
sensible child, but no hope lightened the long, 
terrible night, and when the reaction came in the 
morning, it came in the form of fever and delirium. 

Questioned closely by David, James admitted 
nothing but that while talking to him about Don- 
ald McFarlane she had fallen at his feet, and Don- 
ald could only say that he had that evening told 
her he was going to Edinburgh in two weeks, to 
study law with his cousin, and that he had asked 
her to be his wife. 


JAMKS blackie’s RKVKNGK. 133 

This acknowledgement bound David and Don- 
ald in a closer communion of sorrow. James and 
his sufferings were scarcely noticed. Yet, proba- 
bly, of all that unhappy company, he suffered the 
most. He loved Christine with a far deeper affec- 
tion than Donald had ever dreamed of. He would 
have given his life for hers, and yet he had, per- 
haps, been her murderer. How he hated Donald 
in those days! What love and remorse tortured 
him! And what availed it that he had bought 
the power to ruin the man he hated? He was 
afraid to use it. If Christine lived, and he did 
use it, she would never forgive him; if she died, 
he would be her murderer. 

But the business of life cannot be delayed for 
its sorrows. David must wait in his shop, and 
James must be at the bank ; and in two weeks 
Donald had to leave for Edinburgh, though 
Christine was lying in a silent, broken-hearted 
apathy, so close to the very shoal of Time that 
none dared say, She will live another day.” 

How James despised Donald for leaving her 
at all; he desired nothing beyond the permission 
to sit by her side, and watch and aid the slow 
struggle of life back from the shores and shades 
of death. 

It was almost the end of summer before she 
was able to resume her place in the household, 


134 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


but long before that she had asked to see James. 
The interview took place one Sabbath afternoon 
while David was at church. Christine had been 
lifted to a couch, but she was unable to move, 
and even speech was exhausting and difficult to 
her. James knelt down by her side, and, weep- 
ing bitterly, said, 

“O Christine, forgive me!’’ 

She smiled faintly. 

“You — have — not — used — ^yonder — paper, — 
James?” 

“Oh, no, no.” 

‘ ‘ It — would — kill — me. Y ou — would — not — 
kill — me?” 

‘ ‘ I would die to make you strong again. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do n’t — hurt — Donald. Forgive — for — 
Christ’ s — sake, — J ames 1’ ’ 

Poor James! It was hard for him to see that 
still Donald was her first thought, and, looking 
on the wreck of Christine’s youth and beauty, it 
was still harder not to hate him worse than 
ever. 

Nor did the temptation to do so grow less with 
time. He had to listen every evening to David’s 
praises of his nephew: how “he had been entered 
wi’ Advocate Scott, and was going to be a grand 
lawyer,” or how he had been to some great man’s 
house and won all hearts with his handsome face 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 135 

and witty tongue. Or, perhaps, he would be 
shown some rich token of his love that had come 
for Christine; or David would say, “There’s the 
‘Edinbro’ News,’ James; it cam fra Donald this 
morn; tak it hame wi’ you. You ’re welcome.” 
And James feared not to take it, feared to show 
the slightest dislike to Donald, lest David’s anger 
at it should provoke him to say what was in his 
heart, and Christine only be the sufferer. 

One cold night in early winter, James, as was 
his wont now, went to spend the evening in talk- 
ing with David and in w^atching Christine. That 
was really all it was; for, though she had resumed 
her house duties, she took little part in conversa- 
tion. She had always been inclined to silence, 
but now a faint smile and a “Yes” or “No” 
were her usual response, even to her father’s re- 
marks. This night he found David out, and he 
hesitated whether to trouble Christine or not. 
He stood for a moment in the open door and 
looked at her. She was sitting by the table with 
a little Testament open in her hand; but she was 
rather musing on what she had been reading than 
continuing her occupation. 

“Christine !” 

“James !” 

“May I come in?” 

“Yes, surely.” 


136 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

‘‘ I hear your father has gone to a town-meet- 
ing.” 

‘"Yes.” 

‘ ‘ And he is to be made a bailie. ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“lam very glad. It wdll greatly please him, 
and there is no citizen more worthy of the honor. ’ ’ 

“ I think so also.” 

“ Shall I disturb you if I wait to see him?” 

“No, James; sit down.” 

Then Christine laid aside her book and took 
her sewing, and James sat thinking how he could 
best introduce the subject ever near his heart. He 
felt that there was much to say in his own behalf, 
if he only knew how to begin. Christine opened 
the subject for him. She laid down her work and 
went and stood before the fire at his side. The 
faintest shadow’ of color was in her face, and her 
eyes were unspeakably sad and anxious. He 
could not bear their eager, searching gaze, a;id 
dropped his own. 

“James, have you destroyed yonder paper?” 

“Nay, Christine; I am too poor a man to 
throw away so much hard- won gold. I am keep- 
ing it until I can see Mr. McFarlane and quietly 
collect my own.” 

“You will never use it in anyway against 
him?” 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 1 37 

‘‘Will you ever marry him ? Tell me that.” 

“ O sir !” she cried indignantly, “you want to 
make a bargain with my poor heart. Hear, then. 
If Donald wants me to marry him I ’ll never cast 
him off. Do you think God will cast him off for 
one fault? You dare not say it.” 

“ I do not say but what God will pardon. But 
we are human beings; we are not near to God 
yet. ’ ’ 

“ But we ought to be trying to get near him; 
and oh, James, you never had so grand a chance. 
See the pitiful face of Christ looking down on you 
from the cross. If that face should turn away 
from you, James — if it should !” 

“You ask a hard thing of me, Christine.” 

“Yes, I do.” 

‘ ‘ But if you will only try and love me — ’ ’ 

“Stop, James ! I will make no bargain in a 
matter of right and wrong. If for Christ’s sake, 
who has forgiven you so much, you can forgive 
Donald, for Christ’s dear sake do it. If not, I 
will set no earthly love before it. Do your worst. 
God can find out a way. I ’ll trust him.” 

“ Christine ! dear Christine !” 

“ Hush ! I am Donald’s promised wife. May 
God speak to you for me. I am very sad and 
weary. Good-night. ’ ’ 

James did not wait for David’s return. He 
18 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


went back to his own lodging, and, taking the 
note out of his pocket-book, spread it before him. 
His first thought was that he had wared on 
his enemy’s fine clothes, and James loved gold 
and hated foppish, extravagant dress ; his next 
that he had saved Andrew Starkie ;^89, and he 
knew the old usurer was quietly laughing at his 
folly. But worse than all was the alternative he 
saw as the result of his sinful purchase: if he used 
it to gratify his personal hatred, he deeply wound- 
ed, perhaps killed, his dearest love and his oldest 
friend. Hour after hour he sat with the note be- 
fore him. His good angel stood at his side and 
wooed him to mercy. There was a fire burning in 
the grate, and twice he held the paper over it, and 
twice turned away from his better self. 

The watchman was calling “half -past two 
o’clock,” when, cold and weary with his mental 
struggle, he rose and went to his desk. There 
was a secret hiding-place behind a drawer there, 
in which he kept papers relating to his transac- 
tions with Andrew Starkie, and he put it among 
them. “ I ’ll leave it to its chance,” he muttered; 
“a fire might come and burn it up some day. If 
it is God’s will to save Donald, he could so order 
it, and I am fully insured against pecuniary loss.” 
He did not at that moment see how presumptu- 
ously he was throwing his own responsibility on 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 1 39 

God; lie did not indeed want to see anything but 
some plausible way of avoiding a road too steep 
for a heart weighed down with earthly passion to 
dare. 

Then weeks and months drifted away in the 
calm regular routine of David’s life. But though 
there were no outward changes, there was a very 
important inward one. About sixteen months 
after Donald’s departure he returned to visit 
Christine. James, at Christine’s urgent request, 
absented himself during this visit; but when he 
next called at David’s, he perceived at once that 
all was not as had been anticipated. David had 
little to say about him; Christine looked paler 
and sadder than ever. Neither quite under- 
stood why. There had been no visible break 
with Donald, but both father and daughter felt 
that he had drifted far away from them and their 
humble, pious life. Donald had lost the child’s 
heart he had brought with him from the moun- 
tains; he was ambitious of honors, and eager after 
worldly pleasures and advantages. He had be- 
come more gravely handsome, and he talked more 
sensibly to David ; but David liked him less. 

After this visit there sprang up a new hope in 
James’ heart, and he waited and watched, though 
often with very angry feelings; for he was sure 
that Donald was gradually deserting Christine. 


140 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

She grew daily more sad and silent; it was evi- 
dent she was suffering. The little Testament lay 
now always with her work, and he noticed that 
she frequently laid aside her sewing and read it 
earnestly, even while David and he were quietly 
talking at the fireside. 

One Sabbath, two years after Donald’s de- 
parture, James met David coming out of church 
alone. He could only say, ‘ ‘ I hope Christine is 
well.” 

‘‘Had she been well, she had been wi’ me; 
thou kens that, James.” 

‘ ‘ I might have done so. Christine is never 
absent from God’s house when it is open.” 

“ It is a good plan, James; for when they who 
go regular to God’s house are forced to stay away, 
God himself asks after them. I hae no doubt but 
what Christine has been visited.” 

They walked on in silence until David’s house 
was in sight. “I’m no caring for any company 
earth can gie me the night, James; but the morn 
I hae something to tell you I canna speak anent 
to-day.” 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 


141 


CHAPTER V. 

The next day David came into the bank 
about noon, and said, “Come wi’ me to McLel- 
lan’s, James, and hae a mutton pie, it’s near by 
lunch-time.” While they were eating it David 
said, “Donald McFarlane is to be wedded next 
month. He ’s making a grand marriage.” 

James bit his lip, but said nothing. 

“He’s spoken for Miss Margaret Napier; her 
father w^as ane o’ the Lords o’ Session; she’s his 
sole heiress, and that will mean ;^5o,ooo, foreby 
the bonnie place and lands o’ Ellenshawe.” 

“And Christine?” 

“Dinna look that way, man. Christine is 
content; she kens weel enough she isna like her 
cousin. ’ ’ 

“God be thanked she is not. Go away from 
me, David Cameron, or I shall say words that will 
make more suffering than you can dreahi off. Go 
away, man.” 

David was shocked and grieved at his com- 
panion’s passion. “James,” he said solemnly, 
“dinna mak a fool o’ yoursel’. I hae long seen 
your ill-will at Donald. Let it go. Donald’s 


142 


SCOTTISH SKETCifES. 


aboon your thumb now, and the anger o’ a poor 
man aye falls on himsel’.” 

“For God’s sake don’t tempt me farther. 
You little know what I could do if I had the ill 
heart to do it. ’ ’ 

“Ow! ay!” said David scornfully, “if the 
poor cat had only wings it would extirpate the 
race of sparrows from the world; but when the 
wings arena there, James lad, it is just as weel to 
mak no boast o’ them. ’ ’ 

James had leaned his head in his hands, and 
was whispering, ‘ ‘ Christine ! Christine ! Chris- 
tine !” in a rapid inaudible voice. He took no 
notice of David’s remark, and David was instant- 
ly Sony for it. “The puir lad is just sorrowful 
wi’ love for Christine, and that’s nae sin that I 
can see,” he thought. “James,” he said kindly, 

‘ ‘ I am sorry enough to grieve you. Come as soon 
as you can like to do it. You ’ll be welcome.” 

James slightly nodded his head, but did not 
move; and David left him alone in the little 
boarded room where they had eaten. In a few 
minutes he collected himself, and, like one da^ed, 
walked back to his place in the bank. Never 
had its hours seemed so long, never had the noise 
and traffic, the tramping of feet, and the banging 
of doors seemed so intolerable. As early as pos- 
sible he was at David’s, and David, with that fine 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 143 

instinct that a kind heart teaches, said as he en- 
tered, “ Gude evening, Janies. Gae awa ben and 
keep Christine company. I ’m that busy that 
I ’ll no shut up for half an hour yet.” 

James found Christine in her usual place. 
The hearth had been freshly swept, the fire blazed 
brightly, and she sat before it with her white 
seam in her hand. She raised her eyes at James’ 
entrance, and smilingly nodded to a vacant chair 
near her. He took it silently. Christine seemed 
annoyed at his silence in a little while, and asked, 
‘ ‘ Why do n’ t you speak, J ames ? Have you noth- 
ing to say ?’ ’ 

“A great deal, Christine. What now do you 
think of Donald McFarlane ?’ ’ 

“ I think well of Donald.” 

“ And of his marriage also?” 

‘‘Certainly I do. When he was here I saw 
how unfit I was to be his wife. I told him so, 
and bid him seek a mate more suitable to his 
position and prospects.'” 

“Do you think it right to let yonder lady wed 
such a man with her eyes shut?” 

“Are you going to open them?” Her face 
was sad and mournful, and she laid her hand 
gently on James’ shoulder. 

“ I think it is my duty, Christine.” 

“Think again, James. Be sure it is your 


144 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


duty before you go on sucb an errand. See if 
you dare kneel down and ask God to bless you in 
this duty. ’ ’ 

“Christine, you treat me very hardly. You 
know how I love you, and you use your power 
over me unmercifully.” 

“No, no, James, I only want you to keep 
yourself out of the power of Satan. If indeed I 
have any share in your heart, do not wrong me 
by giving Satan a place there also. I^et me at 
least respect you, James.” 

Christine had never spoken in this way before 
to him; the majesty and purity of her character 
lifted him insensibly to higher thoughts, her gen- 
tleness soothed and comforted him. When David 
came in he found them talking in a calm, cheer- 
ful tone, and the evening that followed was one 
of the pleasantest he could remember. Yet James 
understood that Christine trusted in his forbear- 
ance, and he had no heart to grieve her, especially 
as she did her best to reward him by striving to 
make his visits to her father unusually happy. 

So Donald married Miss Napier, and the news- 
papers were full of the bridegroom’s beauty and 
talents, and the bride’s high lineage and great pos- 
sessions. After this Donald and Donald’s affairs 
seemed to very little trouble David’s humble 
household. His marriage put him far away from 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 145 

Christine’s thoughts, for her delicate conscience 
would have regarded it as a great sin to remem- 
ber with any feeling of love another woman’s 
affianced husband; and when the struggle be- 
came one between right and wrong, it was ended 
for Christine. David seldom named him, and so 
Donald McFarlane gradually passed out of the 
lives he had so sorely troubled. 

Slowly but surely James continued to prosper; 
he rose to be cashier in the bank, and he won a 
calm but certain place in Christine’s regard. She 
had never quite recovered the shock of her long 
illness; she was still very frail, and easily ex- 
hausted by the least fatigue or excitement. But 
in James’ eyes she was perfect; he was always at 
his best in her presence, and he was a very proud 
and happy man when, after eight years’ patient 
waiting and wooing, he won from her the prom- 
ise to be his wife; for he knew that with Chris- 
tine the promise meant all that it ought to 
mean. 

The marriage made few changes in her peace- 
ful life. James left the bank, put his savings in 
David’s business, and became his partner. But 
they continued to live in the same house, and 
year after year passed away in that happy calm 
which leaves no records, and has no fate days for 
the future to date from. 

19 


14^ SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

Sometimes a letter, a newspaper, or some pub- 
lic event, would bring back the memory of the 
gay, handsome lad that had once made so bright 
the little back parlor. Such strays from Donald’s 
present life were always pleasant ones. In ten 
years he had made great strides forward. Every 
one had a good word for him. His legal skill was 
quoted as authority, his charities were munificent, 
his name unblemished by a single mean deed. 

Had James forgotten? No, indeed. Donald’s 
success only deepened his hatred of him. Even 
the silence he was compelled to keep on the sub- 
ject intensified the feeling. Once after his mar- 
riage he attempted to discuss the subject with 
Christine, but the scene had been so painful he 
had never attempted it again ; and David was 
swift and positive to dismiss any unfavorable al- 
lusion to Donald. Once, on reading that ‘ ‘ Advo- 
cate McFarlane had joined the Free Kirk of Scot- 
land on open confession of faith,” James flung 
down the paper and said pointedly, “I wonder 
whether he confessed his wrong-doing before his 
faith or not. ’ ’ 

“There’s nane sae weel shod, James, that 
they mayna slip, ’ ’ answered David, with a stern 
face. “He has united wi’ Dr. Buchan’s kirk — 
there ’s nane taken into that fellowship unworthi- 
ly, as far as man can judge.” 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 147 

“ He would be a wise minister that got at all 
Advocate McFarlane’s sins, I am thinking.” 

“ Dinna say all ye think, James. They walk 
too fair for earth that naebody can find fault wi’.” 

So James nursed the evil passion in his own 
heart; indeed, he had nursed it so long that he 
could not of himself resign it, and in all his pray- 
ers — and he did pray frequently, and often sin- 
cerely — he never named this subject to God, never 
once asked for his counsel or help in the matter. 

Twelve years after his marriage with Chris- 
tine David died, died as he had often wished to 
die, very suddenly. He was well at noon ; at 
night he had put on the garments of eternal Sab- 
bath. He had but a few moments of conscious- 
ness in which to bid farewell to his children. 
“Christine,” he said cheerfully, “we’ 11 no be 
lang parted, dear lassie ;” and to James a few 
words on his affairs, and then almost with his last 
breath, “James, heed what I say: ‘Blessed are 
the merciful, for they shall — obtain mercy.’ ” 

There seemed to have been some prophetic 
sense in David’s parting words to his daughter, 
for soon after his death she began to fail rapidly. 
What James suffered as he saw it only those can 
tell who have watched their beloved slowly dy- 
ing, and hoped against hope day after day and 
week after week. Perhaps the hardest part was 


148 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


the knowledge that she had never recovered the 
health she had previous to the terrible shock 
which his revelation of Donald’s guilt had been 
to her. He forgot his own share in the shock, 
and threw the whole blame of her early decay on 
Donald. ‘.J-And if she dies, ’ ’ he kept saying in his 
angry heart, ‘ ‘ I will make him suffer for it. ’ ’ 

And Christine was drawing very near to death, 
though even when she was confined to her room 
and bed James would not believe it. And it was 
at this time that Donald came once more to Glas- 
gow. There was a very exciting general election 
for a -new Parliament, and Donald stood for the 
Conservative party in the city of Glasgow. Noth- 
ing could have so speedily ripened James’ evil 
purpose. Should a forger represent his native 
city ? Should he see the murderer of his Chris- 
tine win honor upon honor, when he had but to 
speak and place him among thieves ? 

During the struggle he worked frantically to 
defeat him — and failed. That night he came 
home like a man possessed by some malicious, 
ungovernable spirit of hell. He would not go to 
Christine’s room, for he was afraid she would dis- 
cover his purpose in his face, and win him from 
it. For now he had sworn to himself that he 
would only wait until the congratulatory dinner. 
He could get an invitation to it. All the bailies 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. I49, 

and the great men of the city would be there. 
The newspaper reporters would be there. His 
triumph would be complete. Donald would 
doubtless make a great speech, and after it he 
would say his few words. 

Then he thought of Christine. But she did 
not move him now, for she was never likely to 
hear of it. She was confined to her bed; she read 
nothing but her Bible; she saw no one but her 
nurse. He would charge the nurse, and he would 
keep all papers and letters from her. He thought 
of nothing now but the near gratification of a re^ 
vengeful purpose for which he had waited twenty 
years. Oh, how sweet it seemed to him ! 

The dinner was to be in a week, and during 
the next few days he was like a man in a bad 
dream. . He neglected his business, and wandered 
restlessly about the house, and looked so fierce 
and haggard that Christine began to notice, to 
watch, and to fear. She knew that Donald was 
in the city, and her heart told her that it was his 
presence only that could so alter her husband ; 
and she poured it out in strong supplications for 
strength and wisdom to avert the calamity she 
felt approaching. 

That night her nurse became sick and could 
not remain with her, and James, half reluctantly, 
took her place, for he feared Christine’s influence 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


150 

now. She would ask him to read the Bible, to 
pray with her; she might talk to him of death 
and heaven ; she might name Donald, and extract 
some promise from him. And he was determined 
now that nothing should move him. So he pre- 
tended great weariness, drew a large chair to her 
bedside, and said, 

“ I shall try and sleep a while, darling; if you 
need me you have only to speak. ’ ’ 


JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 




CHAPTER VI. 

He was more weary than he knew, and ere he 
was aware he fell asleep — a restless, wretched 
sleep, that made him glad when the half-oblivion 
was over. Christine, however, was apparently at 
rest, and he soon relapsed into the same dark, 
haunted state of unconsciousness. Suddenly he 
began to mutter and moan, and then to speak 
with a hoarse, whispered rapidity that had in it 
something frightful and unearthly. But Chris- 
tine listened with wide-open eyes, and heard with 
sickening terror the whole wicked plot. It fell 
from his half-open lips over and over in every 
detail ; and over and over he laughed low and 
terribly at the coming shame of the hated Don- 
ald. 

She had not walked alone for weeks, nor in- 
deed been out of her room for months, but she 
must go now; and she never doubted her strength. 
As if she had been a spirit, she slipped out of bed, 
walked rapidly and noiselessly into the long-unfa- 
miliar parlor. A rushlight was burning, and the 
key of the old desk was always in it. Nothing 
valuable was kept there, and people unacquaint- 


152 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


ed with the secret of the hidden drawer would 
have looked in vain for the entrance to it. Chris- 
tine had known it for years, but her wifely honor 
had held it more sacred than locks or keys could 
have done. She was aware only that James kept 
some private matter of importance there, and she 
would as readily have robbed her husband’s purse 
as have spied into things of which he did not 
speak to her. 

Now, however, all mere thoughts of courtesy 
or honor must yield before the alternative in 
which James and Donald stood. She reached the 
desk, drew out the concealing drawer, pushed 
aside the slide, and touched the paper. There 
were other papers there, but something taught 
her at once the right one. To take it and close 
the desk was but the work of a moment, then 
back she flew as swiftly and noiselessly as a spirit 
with the condemning evidence tightly clasped in 
her hand. 

James was still muttering and moaning in his 
troubled sleep, and with the consciousness of her 
success all her unnatural strength passed away. 
She could hardly secrete it in her bosom ere she 
fell into a semi-conscious lethargy, through which 
she heard with terror her husband’s low, weird 
laughter and whispered curses. 

At length the day for the dinner came. James 



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JAMES BEACKIE’S REVENGE. 153 

had procured an invitation, and he made unusual 
personal preparations for it. He was conscious 
that he was going to do a very mean action, but 
he would look as well as possible in the act. He 
had even his apology for it ready; he would say 
that ‘ ‘ as long as it was a private wrong he had 
borne the loss patiently for twenty years, but that 
the public welfare demanded honest men, men 
above reproach, and he could no longer feel it his 
duty,” etc., etc. 

After he was dressed he bid Christine ‘‘Good- 
by.” 

“ He would only stay an hour,” he said, “and 
he must needs go, as Donald was her kin.” 

Then he went to the desk, and with hands 
trembling in their eagerness sought the bill. It 
w^as not there. Impossible ! He looked again — 
again more carefully — could not believe his eyes, 
and looked again and again. It was really gone. 
If the visible hand of God had struck him, he 
could not have felt it more consciously. He 
mechanically closed the desk and sat down like 
one stunned. Cain might have felt as James did 
when God asked him, “Where is thy brother?” 
He did not think of prayer. No ‘ ‘ God be merciful 
to me a sinner” came as yet from his dry, white 
lips. The fountains of his heart seemed dry as 
dust. The anger of God weighed him down till 
20 


154 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


“ He felt as one 

Who, waking after some strange, fevered dream, 
Sees a dim land and things unspeakable. 

And comes to know at last that it is hell.” 

Meantime Christine was lying with folded 
hands, praying for him. She knew what an 
agony he was going through, and ceaselessly 
with pure supplications she prayed for his for- 
giveness. About midnight one came and told 
him his wife wanted to see him. He rose with a 
wretched sigh, and looked at the clock. He had 
sat there six hours. He had thought over every- 
thing, over and over — the certainty that the paper 
was there, the fact that no other paper had been 
touched, and that no human being but Christine 
knew of the secret place. These things shocked 
him beyond expression. It was to his mind a 
visible assertion of the divine prerogative; he 
had really heard God say to him, “ Vengeance is 
mine.-’ The lesson that in these materialistic 
days we would reason away, James humbly ac- 
cepted. His religious feelings were, after all, his 
deepest feelings, and in those six hours he had so 
palpably felt the frown of his angry Heavenly 
Father that he had quite forgotten his poor, 
puny wrath at Donald McFarlane. 

As he slowly walked up stairs to Christine he 
determined to make to her a full confession of the 


JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE. 155 

deed he had meditated. But when he reached 
her bedside he saw that she was nearly dead. 
She smiled faintly and said, 

“Send all away, James. I must speak alone 
with you, dear; we are going to part, my hus- 
band. ’ ’ 

Then he knelt down by her side and held her 
cold hands, and the gracious tears welled up in 
his hot eyes, and he covered them with the blessed 
rain. 

“O James, how you have suffered — since six 
o’clock.” 

“You know then, Christine ! I would weep 
tears of blood over my sin. O dear, dear wife, 
take no shameful memory of me into eternity 
with you. ’ ’ 

“ See how I trust you, James. Here is poor, 
weak Donald’s note. I know now you will 
never use it against him. What if your six hours 
were lengthened out through life — through eter- 
nity ? I ask no promise from you now, dear. ’ ’ 

“But I give it. Before God I give it, with 
all my heart. My sin has found me out this 
night. How has God borne with me all these 
years? Oh, how great is his mercy !” 

Then Christine told him how he had revealed 
his wicked plot, and hqw wonderful strength had 
been given her to defeat it; and the two souls. 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


156 

amid tlieir parting sighs and tears, knew each 
other as they had never done through all their 
years of life. 

For a week James remained in his own room. 
Then Christine was laid beside her father, and 
the shop was reopened, and the household re- 
turned to its ways. But James was not seen in 
house or shop,, and the neighbors said, 

‘ ‘ Kirsty Cameron has had a wearisome sick- 
ness, and nae doobt her gudeman was needing a 
rest. Dootless he has gane to the Hielands a 
bit.” 

But it was not northward James Blackie 
went. It was south; south past the bonnie Cum- 
berland Hills and the great manufacturing towns 
of Lancashire and the rich valleys of Yorkshire; 
southward until he stopped at last in London. 
Even then, though he was weary and sick and 
the night had fallen, he did not rest. He took a 
carriage and drove at once to a fashionable man- 
sion in Baker street. The servant looked curi- 
ously at him and felt half inclined to be insolent 
to such a visitor. 

‘ ‘ Take that card to your master at once, ’ ’ he 
said in a voice whose authority could not be dis- 
puted, and the man went. 

His master was lying on a sofa in a luxuri- 
ouslyrfurnished room, playing with a lovely girl 


JAMKS BI^ACKIE’S RE:vE:NGE. 157 

about four years old, and listening meanwhile 
to an enthusiastic account of a cricket match 
that two boys of about twelve and fourteen years 
were giving him. He was a strikingly hand- 
some man, in the prime of life, with a thorough- 
ly happy expression. He took James’ card in a 
careless fashion, listened to the end of his sons’ 
story, and then looked at it. Instantly his man- 
ner changed; he stood up, and said promptly, 

‘ ‘ Go away now. Miss Margaret, and you also, 
Angus and David; I have an old friend to see.” 
Then to the servant, ‘ ‘ Bring the gentleman here 
at once.” 

When he heard James’ step he went to meet 
him with open hand; but James said, 

“Not just yet, Mr. McFarlane; hear what I 
have to say. Then if you offer your hand I will 
take it.” 

“ Christine is dead?” 

“Dead, dead.” 

They sat down opposite each other, and James 
did not spare himself. From his discovery of the 
note in old Starkie’s possession until the death of 
Christine, he confessed everything. Donald sat 
with downcast eyes, quite silent. Once or twice 
his fierce Highland blood surged into his face, 
and his hand stole mechanically to the place 
where his dirk had once been, but the motion 


' SCOTTISH sketches. 


158 

was as transitory as a thought. When James had 
finished he sat with compressed lips for a few 
moments, quite unable to control his speech ; but 
at length he slowly said, 

“ I wish I had known all this before; it would 
have saved much sin and suffering. You said 
that my indifference at first angered you. I must 
correct this. I was not indifferent. No one can 
tell what suffering that one cowardly act cost me. 
But before the bill fell due I went frankly to 
Uncle David and confessed all my sin. What 
passed between us you may guess; but he forgave 
me freely and fully, as I trust God did also. 
Hence there was no cause for its memory to 
darken life.” 

‘ ‘ I always thought Christine had told her 
father, ’ ’ muttered J ames. 

“Nay, but I told him myself. He said he 
would trace the note, and I have no doubt he 
knew it was in your keeping from the first. ’ ’ 

Then James took it from his pocket-book. 
“There it is, Mr. McFarlane. Christine gave 
it back to me the hour she died. I promised her 
to bring it to you and tell you all. ’ ’ 

“ Christine’s soul was a white rose without a 
thorn. I count it an honor to have known and 
loved her. But the paper is yours, Mr. Blackie, 
unless I may pay for it. ’ ’ 


JAMES BLACKIE’S REVENGE. 1 59 

O man, man ! what money could pay for it? 
I would not dare to sell it for the whole world ! 
Take it, I pray you. ’ ’ 

“ I will not. Do as you wish with it, James. 
I can trust you. ’ ’ 

Then James walked towards the table. There 
were wax lights burning on it, and he held it in 
the flame and watched it slowly consume away to 
ashes. The silence was so intense that they heard 
each other breathing, and the expression on 
James’ face was so rapt and noble that even Don- 
ald’s stately beauty was for the moment less 
attractive. Then he walked towards Donald and 
said, 

“Now give me your hand, McFarlane, and 
I ’ll take it gladly.” 

And that was a handclasp that meant to both 
men what no words could have expressed. 

“ Farewell, McFarlane; our ways in this world 
lie far apart; but when we come to die it will 
comfort both of us to remember this meeting. 
God be with you !” 

“And with you also, James. Farewell.” 

Then James went back to his store and his 
shadowed household life. And people said he 
looked happier than ever he had done, and pitied 
him for his sick wife, and supposed he felt it a 
happy release to be rid of her. So wrongly does 


l6o SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

the world, which knows nothing of our real life, 
judge us. 

You may see his gravestone in Glasgow Ne- 
cropolis to-day, and people will tell you that he 
was a great philanthropist, and gave away a no- 
ble fortune to the sick and the ignorant; and you 
will probably wonder to see only beneath his 
name the solemn text, “Vengeance is mine; I 
will repay, saith the kord.” 



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FACING HIS ENEMY. 


CHAPTER I. 

Forty years ago there stood in the lower part 
of the city of Glasgow a large, plain building 
which was to hundreds of very intelligent Scotch- 
men almost sacred ground. It stood among ware- 
houses and factories, and in a very unfashionable 
quarter; but for all that, it was Dr. William Mor- 
rison’s kirk. And Dr. Morrison was in every 
respect a remarkable man — a Scotchman with the 
old Hebrew fervor and sublimity, who accepted 
the extremest tenets of his creed with a deep reli- 
gious faith, and scorned to trim or moderate them 
in order to suit what he called ‘‘a sinfu’ latitudi- 
narian age.” 

Such a man readily found among the solid 
burghers of Glasgow a large “following” of a 
very serious kind, douce, dour men, whose strong- 
ly-marked features looked as if they had been 
chiselled out of their native granite — men who 
settled themselves with a grave kind of enjoy- 


164 


SCOTTISH ski:tche:s. 


ment to listen to a full hour’s sermon, and who 
watched every point their minister made with a 
critical acumen that seemed more fitting to a 
synod of divines than a congregation of weavers 
and traders. 

A prominent man in this remarkable church 
was Deacon John Callendar. He had been one 
of its first members, and it was everything to his 
heart that Jerusalem is to the Jew, or Mecca to 
the Mohammedan. He believed his minister to 
be the best and wisest of men, though he was by 
no means inclined to allow himself a lazy confi- 
dence in this security. It was the special duty 
of deacons to keep a strict watch over doctrinal 
points, and though he had never had occasion to 
dissent in thirty years’ scrutiny, he still kept the 
watch. 

In the temporal affairs of the church it had 
been different. There was no definite creed for 
guidance in these matters, and eight or ten men 
with strong, rugged wills about j., d.^ each 
thinking highly of his own discretion in mone- 
tary affairs, and rather indifferently of the minis- 
ter’s gifts in this direction, were not likely to have 
always harmonious sessions. 

They had had a decidedly inharmonious one 
early in January of 184- and Deacon Callendar 
had spoken his mind with his usual blunt direct- 


FACING HIS FNFMY. 165 

ness. He had been a good deal nettled at the 
minister’s attitude, for, instead of seconding his 
propositions. Dr. Morrison had sat with a far- 
away, indifferent look, as if the pending discus- 
sion was entirely out of his range of interest. 
John could have borne contradiction better. An 
argument would have gratified him. But to have 
the speech and statistics which he had so care- 
fully prepared fall on the minister’s ear without 
provoking any response was a great trial of his 
patience. He was inwardly very angry, though 
outwardly very calm; but Dr. Morrison knew 
well what a tumult was beneath the dour still 
face of the deacon as he rose from his chair, put 
on his plaid, and pulled his bonnet over his brows. 

“John,” he said kindly, “you are a wise 
man, and I aye thought so. It takes a Christian 
to lead passion by the bridle. A Turk is a placid 
gentleman, John, but he cannot do it.” 

“Ou, ay! doubtless! There is talk o’ the 
Turk and the Pope, but it is my neighbors that 
trouble me the maist, minister. Good-night to ye 
all. If ye vote to-night you can e’en count my 
vote wi’ Dr. Morrison’s; it will be as sensible and 
warld-like as any o’ the lave.” 

With this parting reflection he went out. It 
had begun to snow, and the still, white solitude 
made him ashamed of his temper. He looked up 


1 66 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

at tlie quiet heavens above him, then at the quiet 
street before him, and muttered with a spice of 
satisfaction, “Speaking comes by nature, and 
silence by understanding. I am thankfu’ now I 
let Deacon Strang hae the last word. I’m say- 
ing naught against Strang; he may gie good 
counsel, but they ’ll be fools that tak it.” 

“Uncle !” 

‘ ‘ Hout, Davie ! Whatna for are you here ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It began to snow, and I thought you would 
be the better of your cloak and umbrella. You 
seem vexed, uncle. ’ ’ 

“Vexed? Ay. The minister is the maist 
contrary o’ mortals. He kens naething about 
church government, and he treats gude siller as 
if it wasna worth the counting; but he’s a gude 
man, and a great man, Davie, and folk canna 
serve the altar and be money-changers too. I 
ought to keep that i’ mind. It’s Deacon Strang, 
and no the minister.” 

“Well, uncle, you must just thole it; you 
know what the New Testament says?” 

‘ ‘ Ay, ay ; I ken it says if a man be struck on 
one cheek, he must turn the other; but, Davie, 
let me tell you that the man who gets the first 
blow generally deserves the second. It is gude 
Christian law no to permit the first stroke. That 
is my interpretation o’ the matter.” 


FACING HIS ENFMY. 


167 


“ I never thought of that.” 

Young folk don’t think o’ everything.” 

There was something in the tone of this last 
remark which seemed to fit best into silence, and 
David Callendar had a particular reason for not 
further irritating his uncle. The two men with- 
out any other remark reached the large, hand- 
some house in Blytheswood Square which was 
their home. Its warmth and comfort had an im- 
mediate effect on the deacon. He looked pleas- 
antly at the blaming fire and the table on the 
hearthrug, with its basket of oaten cakes, its 
pitcher of cream, and its whiskey-bottle and tod- 
dy glasses. The little brass kettle was simmering 
before the fire, his slippers were invitingly warm, 
his loose coat lying over the back of his soft, am- 
ple chair, and just as he had put them on, and 
sank down with a sigh of content, a bright old 
lady entered with a spicy dish of kippered salmon. 

‘‘I thought I wad bring ye a bit relish wi’ 
your toddy, deacon. Talking is hungry wark. 
I think a man might find easier pleasuring than 
going to a kirk session through a snowstorm. ’ ’ 

“ A man might, Jenny. They ’d suit women- 
folk wonderfu’; there’s plenty o’ talk and little 
wark.” 

‘ ‘ Then I dinna see ony call to mak a change, 
deacon.” 


SCOTTISH SKKTCHKS. 


l68 

“Now, Jenny, you’ve had the last word, sae 
ye can go to bed wi’ an easy mind. And, Jenny, 
woman, dinna let your quarrel wi’ Maggie Laun- 
der come between you and honest sleep. I think 
that will settle her,” he observed with a pawky 
smile, as his housekeeper shut the door with un- 
necessary haste. 

Half an hour afterwards, David, mixing an- 
other glass of toddy, drew his chair closer to the 
fire, and said, “ Uncle John, I want to speak to 
you. ’ ’ 

“Speak on, laddie;” but David noticed that 
even with the permission, cautious curves settled 
round his uncle’s eyes, and his face assumed that 
businessdike immobility which defied his scruti- 
ny. 

‘ ‘ I have had a very serious talk with Robert 
Leslie ; he is thinking of buying Alexander 
Hastie out. ’ ’ 

“Why not think o’ buying out Robert Napier, 
or Gavin Campbell, or Clydeside Woolen Works? 
A body might as weel think o’ a thousand spin- 
dles as think o’ fifty.” 

“But he means business. An aunt, who has 
lately died in Galloway, has left him ;^2,ooo.” 

“That isna capital enough to run Sandy 
Hastie’s mill.” 

“ He wants me to join him.” 


FACING HIS ENKMY. 


16^9 

“And liow will that help matters? Twa 
thousand pounds added to Davie Callendar will 
be just ;^2jOOO.” 

“I felt sure you would lend me ;^2,ooo; and 
in that case it would be a great chance for me. I 
am very anxious to be — ’ ’ 

“ Your ain maister.” 

“Not that altogether, uncle, although you 
know well the Callendars come of a kind that do 
not like to serve. I want to have a chance to 
make money. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How much of your salary have you 
saved?” 

“ I have never tried to save anything yet, un- 
cle,' but I am going to begin. ’ ’ 

The old man sat silent for a few moments, and 
then said, “ I wont do it, Davie.” 

“ It is only ;^2,ooo. Uncle John.” 

'‘'‘Only £2 ^ooo\ Hear the lad! Did ye ever 
mak ;^2,ooo ? Did ye ever save ;^2,ooo ? When 
ye hae done that ye’ll ne’er put in the adverb, 
Davie. Only £2^000^ indeed P'* 

‘ ‘ I thought you loved me, uncle. ’ ’ 

“I love no human creature better than you. 
Whatna for should I not love you? You are the 
only thing left to me o’ the bonnie brave brother 
who wrapped his colors round him in the Afghan 
Pass, the brave-hearted lad who died fighting 


170 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


twenty to one. And you are whiles sae like liim 
that I ’m tempted — na, na, that is a^ byganes. I 
will not let you hae the ^2,000, that is the busi- 
ness in hand. ’ ’ 

“What for?” 

‘ ‘ If you will hear the truth, that second glass 
o’ whiskey is reason plenty. I hae taken my ane 
glass every night for forty years, and I hae ne’er 
made the ane twa, except New Year’s tide.” 

“That is fair nonsense. Uncle John. There 
are plenty of men whom you trust for more than 
;^2,ooo who can take four glasses for their night- 
cap always. ’ ’ 

“That may be; I ’m no denying it; but what 
is lawfu’ in some men is sinfu’ in others. ’ ’ 

“ I do not see that at all.” 

^ ‘ Do you mind last summer, when we were up 
in Argyleshire, how your cousin, Roy Callendar, 
walked, with ne’er the wink o’ an eyelash, on a 
mantel-shelf hanging over a three-hundred-feet 
precipice ? Roy had the trained eyesight and the 
steady nerve which made it lawfu’ for him; for 
you or me it had been suicide — naething less sin- 
fu’. Three or four glasses o’ whiskey are safer 
for some men than twa for you. I hae been feel- 
ing it my duty to tell you this for some time. 
Never look sae glum, Davie, or I ’ll be thinking 
it is my siller and no mysel’ you were caring for 



Page 17 1 






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FACING HIS FNEMY. 171 

the night when ye thought o’ my cloak and um- 
brella. ’ ’ 

The young man rose in a perfect blaze of pas- 
sion. 

‘‘ Sit down, sit down,” said his uncle. “ One 
would think you were your grandfather, Evan 
Callendar, and that some English red-coat had 
trod on your tartan. Hout ! What ’s the use o’ 
a temper like that to folk w^ha hae taken to the 
spindle instead o’ the claymore ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am a Callendar for all that. ’ ’ 

“ Sae am I, sae am I, and vera proud o’ it fore- 
bye. We are a’ kin, Davie; blood is thicker than 
water, and we wont quarrel. ’ ’ 

David put down his unfinished glass of toddy. 
He could not trust himself to discuss the matter 
any farther, but as he left the room he paused, 
with the open door in his hand, and said, 

‘ ‘ If you are afraid I am going to be a drunk- 
ard, why did you not care for the fear before it 
became a question of ;^2,ooo? And if I ever do 
become one, remember this. Uncle John — you 
mixed my first glass for me !” 


172 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER II. 

A POSITIVE blow could hardly have stunned 
John Callendar as this accusation did. He could 
not have answered it, even if he had had an op- 
portunity, and the shock was the greater that it 
brought with it a sudden sense of responsibility, 
yea, even guilt. At first the feeling was one of 
anger at this sudden charge of conscience. He 
began to excuse himself; he was not to blame if 
other people could not do but they must o’erdo; 
then to assure himself that, being God’s child, 
there could be no condemnation in the matter to 
him. But his heart was too tender and honest to 
find rest in such apologies, and close upon his an- 
ger at the lad crowded a host of loving memories 
that would not be put away. 

David’s father had been very dear to him. He 
recalled his younger brother in a score of tender 
situations : the schoolhouse in which they had 
studied cheek to cheek over one book; the little 
stream in which they had paddled and fished on 
holidays, the fir-wood, the misty corries, and the 
heathery mountains of Argyle; above all, he re- 
membered the last time that he had ever seen the 
bright young face marching at the head of his 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


173 


company down Buclianan street on his way to 
India. David’s mother was a still tenderer mem- 
ory, and John Callendar’s eyes grew misty as his 
heart forced him to recall that dark, wintry after- 
noon when she had brought David to him, and 
he had solemnly promised to be a father to the 
lad. It was the last promise between them; three 
weeks afterwards he stood at her grave’s side. 
Time is said to dim such memories as these. It 
never does. After many years some sudden event 
recalls the great crises of any life with all the viv- 
idness of their first occurrence. 

Confused as these memories were, they blend- 
ed with an equal confusion of feelings. Love, 
anger, regret, fear, perplexity, condemnation, ex- 
cuse, followed close on each other, and John’s 
mind, though remarkably clear and acute, was 
one trained rather to the consideration of things 
point by point than to the catching of the proper 
clew in a mental labyrinth. After an hour’s mis- 
erable uncertainty he was still in doubt what to 
do. The one point of comfort he had been able to 
reach was the hope that David had gone straight 
to Jenny with his grievance. ‘‘And though wo- 
men-folk arena much as counsellors,” thought 
John, “they arewonderfu’ comforters; and Jenny 
will ne’er hear tell o’ his leaving the house; sae 
there will be time to put right what is wrong.” 


174 


SCOTTISH SKE:TCHES. 


But tliougli David had always hitherto, when 
lessons were hard or lassies scornful, gone with 
his troubles to the faithful Jenny, he did not do 
so at this time. He did not even bid her ‘ ‘ Good- 
night,” and there was such a look on his face that 
she considered it prudent not to challenge the 
omission. 

‘ ‘ It will be either money or marriage, ’ ’ she 
thought. “If it be money, the deacon has mair 
than is good for him to hae; if it be marriage, it 
will be Isabel Strang, and that the deacon wont 
like. But it is his ain wife Davie is choosing, 
and I am for letting the lad hae the lass he likes 
best.” 

Jenny had come to these conclusions in ten 
minutes, but she waited patiently for an hour be- 
fore she interrupted her master. Then the clock 
struck midnight, and she felt herself aggrieved. 

“Deacon,” she said sharply, “ye should mak 
the day day and the night night, and ye would 
if ye had a three weeks’ ironing to do the morn. 
It has chappit twelve, sir.” 

“Jenny, I’m not sleeplike to-night. There 
hae been ill words between David and me. ’ ’ 

“And I am mair than astonished at ye, dea- 
con. Ye are auld enough to ken that ill words 
canna be wiped out wi’ a sponge. Our Davie 
isna an ordinar lad; he can be trusted where the 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 1 75 

lave would need a watcher. Ye ken that, dea- 
con, for he is your ain bringing up.” 

“ But, Jenny, £2^000 for his share o’ Hastie’s 
mill ! Surely ye didna encourage the lad in such 
an idea?” 

“Oh, sae it’s money,” thought Jenny. 
“What is £2^000 to you, deacon? Why should 
you be sparing and saving money to die wi’ ? 
The lad isna a fool. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I dinna approve o’ the partner that is seek- 
ing him, Jenny. I hae heard things anent 
Robert lycslie that I dinna approve of ; far from 
it.” 

‘ ‘ Hae ye seen anything wrong ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I canna say I hae. ’ ’ 

“Trust to your eyes, deacon; they believe 
themselves, and your ears believe other people; 
ye ken which is best. His father was a decent 
body. ’ ’ 

“Ay, ay; but Alexander I^eslie was different 
from his son Robert. He was a canny, cautious 
man, who could ding for his ain side, and who 
always stood by the kirk. Robert left Dr. Mor- 
rison’s soon after his father died. The doctor was 
too narrow for Robert Deslie. Robert keslie has 
wonderfu’ broad ideas about religion now. Jen- 
ny, I dinna like the men who are their ain Bibles 
and ministers.” 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


176 

^‘But there are good folk outside Dr. Morri- 
son’s kirk, deacon, surely.” 

“We’ll trust so, surely, we’ll trust so, Jenny; 
but a man wi’ broad notions about religion soon 
gets broad notions about business and all other 
things. Why, Jenny, I hae heard that Robert 
Leslie once spoke o’ the house o’ John Callendar 
& Co. as ‘ old fogyish !’ ” 

“That’s no hanging matter, deacon, and ye 
must see that the world is moving. ’ ’ 

“Maybe, maybe; but I ’se never help it to 
move except in the safe, narrow road. Ye ken 
the Garloch mill-stream? It is narrow enough 
for a good rider to leap, but it is deep, and it 
does its wark weel summer and winter. They 
can break down the banks, woman, and let it 
spread all over the meadow; bonnie enough it 
will look, but the mill-clapper would soon stop. 
Now there’s just sae much power, spiritual or 
temporal, in any man; spread it out, and it is 
shallow and no to be depended on for any pur- 
pose whatever. But narrow the channel, Jen- 
ny, narrow the channel, and it is a driving 
force. ’ ’ 

“Ye are getting awa from the main subject, 
deacon. It is the ;^2,ooo, and ye had best mak 
up your mind to gie it to Davie. Then ye can 
gang awa to your bed and tak your rest. ’ ’ 


FACING HIS ENFMY. 


1/7 


‘‘You talk like a — like a woman. It is easy 
to gie other folks’ siller awa. I kae worked for 
my siller. ’ ’ 

“ Your siller, deacon? Ye kae naugkt but a 
life use o’ it. Ye canna take it awa wi’ ye. Ye 
can leave it to tke ane you like best, but tkat 
vera person may scatter it to tke four corners o’ 
tke eartk. And wky not? Money was made 
round tkat it might roll. It is little good yours 
is doing lying in the Clyde Trust. ’ ’ 

“Jenny Callendar, you are my ain cousin four 
times removed, and you kae a kind o’ right to 
speak your mind in my house; but you kae said 
enough, woman. It isna a question of money 
only; there are itker things troubling me mair 
than that. But women are but one-sided arguers. 
Good-night to you.” 

He turned to the fire and sat down, but after a 
few moments of the same restless, confused delib- 
eration, he rose and went to his Bible. It lay 
open upon its stand, and John put his hand lov- 
ingly, reverently upon the pages. He had no 
glasses on, and he could not see a letter, but he 
did not need to. 

“ It is my Father’s word,” he whispered; and, 
standing humbly before it, he recalled passage 
after passage, until a great calm fell upon him. 
Then he said. 


23 


178 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“I will lay me down and sleep now; maybe 
I ’ll see clearer in the morning light.” 

Almost as soon as he opened his eyes in the 
morning there was a tap at his door, and the gay, 
strong voice he loved so dearly asked, 

“ Can I come in. Uncle John?” 

‘‘ Come in, Davie.” 

“Uncle, I was wrong last night, and I 
cannot be happy with any shadow between us 
two. ’ ’ 

Scotchmen are not demonstrative, and John 
only winked his eyes and straightened out his 
mouth; but the grip of the old and young hand 
said what no words could have said half so elo- 
quently. Then the old man remarked in a busi- 
ness-like way, 

“ I hae been thinking, Davie, I would go and 
look o’er Hastie’s affairs, and if I like the look o’ 
them I ’ll buy the whole concern out for you. 
Partners are kittle cattle. Ye will hae to bear 
their shortcomings as well as your ain. Tak my 
advice, Davie; rule your youth well, and your 
age will rule itsel’.” 

“Uncle, you forget that Robert Ueslie is in 
treaty with Hastie. It would be the height of 
dishonor to interfere with his bargain. You have 
always told me never to put my finger in another 
man’s bargain. Uet us say no more on the sub- 


FACING HIS FNKMY. 


179 


ject. I have another plan now. If it succeeds, 
well and good; if not, there are chances behind 
this one. ’ ’ 

John fervently hoped there would be no more 
to say on this subject, and when day after day 
went by without any reference to Hastie or Robert 
I/eslie, John Callendar felt much relieved. David 
also had limited himself to one glass of toddy at 
night, and this unspoken confession and reforma- 
tion was a great consolation to the old man. He 
said to himself that the evil he dreaded had gone 
by his door, and he was rather complacent over 
the bold stand he had taken. 

That day, as he was slowly walking through 
the Exchange, pondering a proposal for Virginia 
goods. Deacon Strang accosted him. “Callen- 
dar, a good day to ye; I congratulate ye on the 
new firm o’ Callendar & Leslie. They are brave 
lads, and like enough — if a’ goes weel — to do 
week” 

John did not allow an eyelash to betray his 
surprise and chagrin. “Ah, Strang!” he an- 
swered, ‘ ‘ the Callendars are a big clan, and we 
are a’ kin; sae, if you tak to congratulating me 
on every Callendar whose name ye see aboon a 
doorstep, you’ll hae mair business on hand than 
you ’ll ken how to manage. A good day to you !’ ’ 
But Deacon Callendar went up Great George 


i8o 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


street that day with a heavy, angry heart. His 
nephew opened the door for him. ‘‘Uncle John, 
I have been looking all over for you. I have 
something to tell you. ’ ’ 

“Fiddler’s news, Davie. I hae heard it 
already. Sae you hae struck hands wi’ Robert 
Ueslie after a’, eh?” 

‘ ‘ He had my promise, uncle, before I spoke to 
you. I could not break it. ” • 

“ H’m ! Where did you get the ;^ 2 ,ooo?” 

“ I borrowed it.” 

“Then I hope ‘the party’ looked weel into 
the business. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ They did not. It was loaned to me on my 
simple representation.” 

“ ‘ Simple representation !’ Vera simple ! It 
was some woman, dootless.” 

“ It was my mother’s aunt, Uady Brith.” 

“Ou, ay! I kent it. Weel, when a bargain 
is made, wish it good luck ; sae, Jenny, put a 
partridge before the fire, and bring up a bottle o’ 
Madeira.” 

It was not however a lively meal. John was 
too proud and hurt to ask for information, and 
David too much chilled by his reserve to volun- 
teer it. The wine, being an unusual beverage to 
John, made him sleepy; and when David said he 
had to meet Robert Ueslie at nine o’clock, John 


FACING HIS ENFMY. 


l8l 


made no objection and no remark. But when 
Jenny came in to cover up the fire for the night, 
she found him sitting before it, rubbing his hands 
in a very unhappy manner. 

‘ ‘ Cousin, ’ ’ he said fretfully, ‘ ‘ there is a new 
firm in Glasgo’ to-day.” 

“I hae heard tell o’ it. God send it pros- 
perity. ’ ’ 

“It isna likely, Jenny; auld Lady Brith’s 
money to start it ! The godless auld woman ! If 
Davie taks her advice, he ’s a gane lad.” 

“Then, deacon, it’s your ain fault. Whatna 
for did ye not gie him the ;^2,ooo?” 

“Just hear the woman ! It taks women and 
lads to talk o’ ;^2,ooo as if it were picked up on 
the planestanes. ’ ’ 

“If ye had loaned it, deacon, ye would hae 
had the right to spier into things, and gie the lad 
advice. He maun tak his advice where he taks 
his money. Ye flung that chance o’ guiding 
Davie to the four winds. And let me tell ye. 
Cousin Callendar, ye hae far too tight a grip on 
this warld’s goods. The money is only loaned to 
you to put out at interest for the Master. It ought 
to be building kirks and schoolhouses, and send- 
ing Bibles to the far ends o’ the earth. When 
you are asked what ye did wi’ it, how will you 
like to answer, ^I hid it safely awa, Lord, in 


i 82 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


the Clyde Trust and in Andrew Fleming’s 
bank!’ ” 

“That will do, woman. Now you hae made 
me dissatisfied wi’ my guiding o’ Davie, and 
meeserable anent my bank account, ye may gang 
to your bed; you’ll doobtless sleep weel on the 
thought.” 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


183 


CHAPTER III. 

However, sometimes things are not so ill as 
they look. The new firm obtained favor, and 
even old, cautious men began to do a little busi- 
ness with it. For Robert introduced some new 
machinery, and the work it did was allowed, after 
considerable suspicion, to be “ vera satisfactory.” 
A sudden emergency had also discovered to David 
that he possessed singularly original ideas in de- 
signing patterns; and he set himself with enthu- 
siasm to that part of the business. Two years 
afterwards came the Great Fair of 1851, and Cal- 
lendar & Leslie took a first prize for their rugs, 
both design and workmanship being honorably 
mentioned. 

Their success seemed now assured. Orders 
came in so fast that the mill worked day and 
night to fill them ; and David was so gay and 
happy that John could hardly help rejoicing with 
him. Indeed, he was very proud of his nephew, 
and even inclined to give Robert a little cautious 
kindness. The winter of 1851 was a very pros- 
perous one, but the spring brought an unlooked- 
for change. 


184 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


One evening David came home to dinner in a 
mood which Jenny characteri2;ed as thrawart,'''* 
He barely answered her greeting, and shut his 
room-door with a bang. He did not want any 
dinner, and he wanted to be let alone. John 
looked troubled at this behavior. Jenny said, 
“It is some lass in the matter; naething else 
could mak a sensible lad like Davie act sae child- 
like and silly. ” And Jennie was right. Towards 
nine o’clock David came to the parlor and sat 
down beside his uncle. He said he had been 
‘ ‘ greatly annoyed. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Annoyances are as certain as the multiplica- 
tion table^” John remarked quietly, “and ye 
ought to expect them — all the mair after a long 
run o’ prosperity.” 

‘ ‘ But no man likes to be refused by the girl 
he loves. ’ ’ 

“Eh? Refused, say ye? Wha has refused 
you?” 

“ Isabel Strang. I have loved her, as you and 
Jenny know, since we went to school together, 
and I was sure that she loved me. Two days ago 
I had some business with Deacon Strang, and 
when it was finished I spoke to him anent Isabel. 
He made me no answer then, one way or the 
other, but told me he would have a talk with Isa- 
bel, and I might call on him this afternoon. 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 185 

When I did so he said he felt obligated to refuse 
my offer. ’ ’ 

“Weel?” 

‘‘That is all.’’ 

“ Nonsense ! Hae you seen Isabel hersel’ ?” 

‘ ‘ She went to Edinburgh last night. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And if you were your uncle, lad, you would 
hae been in Edinburgh too by this time. Your 
uncle would not stay refused twenty-four hours, if 
he thought the lass loved him. Tut, tut, you 
ought to hae left at once; that would hae been 
mair like a Callendar than ganging to your ain 
room to sit out a scorning. There is a train at 
ten o’clock to-night; you hae time to catch it if 
ye dinna lose a minute, and if you come back wi’ 
Mrs. David Callendar, I’ll gie her a warm wel- 
come for your sake.” 

The old man’s face was aglow, and in his ex- 
citement he had risen to his feet with the very air 
of one whom no circumstances could depress or 
embarrass. David caught his mood and his sug- 
gestion, and in five minutes he was on his way to 
the railway d^pot. The thing was done so quick- 
ly that reflection had formed no part of it. But 
when Jenny heard the front-door clash impatient- 
ly after David, she surmised some imprudence, 
and hastened to see what was the matter. John 
told her the “affront” David had received, and 
24 


i86 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


looked eagerly into the strong, kindly face for an 
assurance that he had acted with becoming 
promptitude and sympathy. Jenny shook her 
head gravely, and regarded the deacon with a 
look of pitying disapproval. “To think,” she 
said, “of twa men trying to sort a love affair, 
when there was a woman within call to seek 
counsel o’.” 

“ But we couldna hae done better, Jenny.” 

“Ye couldna hae done warse, deacon. Once 
the lad asked ye for money, and ye wouldna trust 
him wi’ it; and now ye are in sic a hurry to send 
him after a wife that he maun neither eat nor 
sleep. Ye ken which is the niaist dangerous. 
And you, wi’ a’ your years, to play into auld 
Strang’s hand sae glibly ! Deacon, ye hae made a 
nice mess o’ it. Dinna ye see that Strang knew 
you twa fiery Hielandmen would never tak ‘No,’ 
and he sent Isabel awa on purpose for our Davie 
to run after her. He kens weel they will be sure 
to marry, but he’ll say now that his daughter 
disobeyed him; sae he’ll get off giving her a 
bawbee o’ her fortune, and he’ll save a’ the plen- 
ishing and the wedding expenses. Deacon, I ’m 
ashamed o’ you. Sending a love-sick lad on sic 
a fool’s errand. And mair, I ’m not going to hae 
Isabel Strang, or Isabel Callendar here. A young 
woman wi’ bridish ways dawdling about the 


FACING HIS FNFMY. 


187 


house, I canna, and I willna stand. You ’ll hae 
to choose atween Deacon Strang’s daughter and 
your auld cousin, Jenny Callendar.” 

John had no answer ready, and indeed Jenny 
gave him no time to make one; she went off with 
a sob in her voice, and left the impulsive old 
matchmaker very unhappy indeed. For he had 
an unmitigated sense of having acted most impru- 
dently, and moreover, a shrewd suspicion that 
Jenny’s analysis of Deacon Strang’s tactics was a 
correct one. For the first time in many a year, a 
great tide of hot, passionate anger swept away 
every other feeling. He longed to meet Strang 
face to face, and with an hereditary and quite 
involuntary instinct he put his hand to the place 
where h*3 forefathers had always carried their 
dirks. The action terrified and partly calmed 
him. ‘‘My God!” he exclaimed, “forgive thy 
servant. I hae been guilty in my heart 0 ’ mur- 
der. ’ ’ 

He was very penitent, but still, as he mused 
the fire burned; and he gave vent to his feelings 
in odd, disjointed sentences thrown up from the 
Very bottom of his heart, as lava is thrown up 
by the irrepressible eruption: “ Wha shall deliver 
a man from his ancestors? Black Evan Callen- 
dar was never much nearer murder than I hae 
been this night, only for the grace of God, which 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


l88 

put the temptation and the opportunity sae far 
apart. I’ll hae Strang under my thumb yet. 
God forgie me ! what hae I got to do wi’ sorting 
my ain wrongs? What for couldna Davie like 
some other lass? It’s as easy to graft on a good 
stock as an ill one. I doobt I hae done wuong. 
I am in a sair swither. The righteous dinna 
always see the right way. I maun e’en to my 
Psalms again. It is a wonderfu’ comfort that 
King David was just a weak, sinfu’ mortal like 
mysel’.” So he went again to those pathetic, 
self-accusing laments of the royal singer, and 
found in them, as he always had done, words for 
all the great depths of his sin and fear, his hopes 
and his faith. 

In the morning one thing was clear to him; 
David must have his own house now — David 
must leave him. He could not help but acknowl- 
edge that he helped on this consummation, and it 
was with something of the feeling of a man doing 
a just penance that he went to look at a furnished 
house, whose owner was going to the south of 
France with a sick daughter. The place was 
pretty, and handsomely furnished, and John paid 
down the year’s rent. So when David returned 
with his young bride, he assumed at once the 
dignity and the cares of a householder. 

Jenny was much offended at the marriage of 


FACING HIS ENKMY. 


189 


David. She had looked forward to this event 
as desirable and probable, but she supposed it 
would have come with solemn religious rites and 
domestic feasting, and with a great gathering in 
Blytheswood Square of all the Callendar clan. 
That it had been “a wedding in a corner,” as 
she contemptuously called it, was a great disap- 
pointment to her. But, woman-like, she visited 
it on her own sex. It was all Isabel’s fault, and 
from the very first day of the return of the new 
couple she assumed an air of commiseration for 
the young husband, and always spoke of him as 
‘ ‘ poor Davie. ’ ’ 

This annoyed John, and after his visits to 
David’s house he was perhaps unnecessarily elo- 
quent concerning the happiness of the young peo- 
ple. Jenny received all such information with a 
dissenting silence. She always spoke of Isabel 
as “Mistress David,” and when John reminded 
her that David’s wife was “Mistress Callendar,” 
she said, “It was weel kent that there were plen- 
ty o’ folk called Callendar that werna Callendars 
for a’ that. ’ ’ And it soon became evident to her 
womanly keen-sigh tedness that John did not al- 
ways return from his visits to David and Isabel 
in the most happy of humors. He was frequent- 
ly too silent and thoughtful for a perfectly satis- 
fied man; but whatever his fears were, he kept 


190 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


them in his own bosom. They were evidently 
as yet so light that hope frequently banished them 
altogether; and when at length David had a son 
and called it after his uncle, the old man enjoyed 
a real springtime of renewed youth and pleasure. 
Jenny was partly reconciled also, for the happy 
parents treated her with special attention, and 
she began to feel that perhaps David’s marriage 
might turn out better than she had looked for. 

Two years after this event Deacon Strang be- 
came reconciled to his daughter, and as a proof of 
it gave her a large mansion situated in the rap- 
idly-growing “West End.” It had come into his 
possession at a bargain in some of the mysterious 
ways of his trade ; but it was, by the very rea- 
son of its great size, quite unsuitable for a young 
manufacturer like David. Indeed, it proved to 
be a most unfortunate gift in many ways. 

“ It will cost ;^5,ooo to furnish it,” said John 
fretfully, “and that Davie can ill afford — few 
men could; but Isabel has set her heart on it.” 

“And she’ll hae her will, deacon. Ye could 
put ;^5,ooo in the business though, or ye could 
furnish for them. ’ ’ 

“My way o’ furnishing wouldna suit them; 
and as for putting back money that David is set 
on wasting, I ’ll no do it. It is a poor well, Jen- 
ny, into which you must put water. If David’s 


FACING HIS FNEMY. 191 

business wont stand liis drafts on it, the sooner he 
finds it out the better.” 

So the fine house was finely furnished; but 
that was only the beginning of expenses. Isabel 
now wanted dress to suit her new surroundings, 
and servants to keep the numerous rooms clean. 
Then she wanted all her friends and acquaintan- 
ces to see her splendid belongings, so that ere- 
long David found his home turned into a fashion- 
able gathering-place. Launches, dinners, and balls 
followed each other quickly, and the result of all 
this visiting was that Isabel had long lists of calls 
to make every day, and that she finally persuaded 
David that it would be cheaper to buy their own 
carriage than to pay so much hire to livery- 
stables. 

These changes did not take place all at once, 
nor without much disputing. John Callendar 
opposed every one of them step by step till oppo- 
sition was useless. David only submitted to them 
in order to purchase for himself a delusive peace 
during the few hours he could afford to be in his 
fine home; for his increased expenditure was not 
a thing he could bear lightly. Every extra hun- 
dred pounds involved extra planning and work 
and risks. He gradually lost all the cheerful 
buoyancy of manner and the brightness of coun- 
tenance that had been always part and parcel of 


192 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


David Callendar. A look of care and weariness 
was on his face, and his habits and hours lost all 
their former regularity. It had once been possi- 
ble to tell the time of day by the return home of 
the two Callendars. Now no one could have 
done that with David. He stayed out late at 
night; he stayed out all night long. He told 
Isabel the mill needed him, and she either be- 
lieved him or pretended to do so. 

So that after the first winter of her fashiona- 
ble existence she generally “entertained” alone. 
“Mr. Callendar had gone to Stirling, or up to 
the Highlands to buy wool,” or, “he was so busy 
money-making she could not get him to recognize 
the claims of society. ’ ’ And society cared not a 
pin’s point whether he presided or not at the ex- 
pensive entertainments given in his name. 


FACING HIS FNFMY. 


193 


CHAPTER IV. 

But things did not come to this pass all at 
once; few men take the steps towards ruin so rap- 
idly as to be themselves alarmed by it. It was 
nearly seven years after his marriage when the 
fact that he was in dangerously embarrassed cir- 
cumstances forced itself suddenly on David’s 
mind. I say ‘ ‘ suddenly ’ ’ here, because the con- 
summation of evil that has been long preparing 
comes at last in a moment; a string holding a 
picture gets weaker and weaker through weeks 
of tension, and then breaks. A calamity through 
nights and days moves slowly towards us step by 
step, and then some hour it has come. So it was 
with David’s business. It had often lately been 
in tight places, but something had always hap- 
pened to relieve him. One day, however, there 
was absolutely no relief but in borrowing money, 
and David went to his uncle again. 

It was a painful thing for him to do; not that 
they had any quarrel, though sometimes David 
thought a quarrel would be better than the scant 
and almost sad intercourse their once tender love 
had fallen into. By some strange mental sympa- 
thy, hardly sufficiently recognised by us, John 

25 


194 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


was thinking of his nephew when he entered. 
He greeted him kindly, and pulled a ch^ir close, 
so that David might sit beside him. He listened 
sympathizingly to his cares, and looked mourn- 
fully into the unhappy face so dear to him; then 
he took his bank-book and wrote out a check for 
double the amount asked. 

The young man was astonished ; the tears 
sprang to .his eyes, and he said, “Uncle, this is 
very good of you. I wish I could tell you how 
grateful I am.” 

‘ ‘ Davie, sit a moment, you dear lad. I hae 
a word to say to ye. I hear tell that my lad is 
drinking far mair than is good either for himsel’ 
or his business. My lad, I care little for the busi- 
ness; let it go, if its anxieties are driving thee to 
whiskey. David, remember what thou accused 
me of, yonder night, when this weary mill was 
first spoken of; and then think how I suffer every 
time I hear tell o^ thee being the warse o’ liquor. 
And Jenny is greeting her heart out about thee. 
And there is thy sick wife, and three bonnie bit 
bairns. ’ ’ 

“ Did Isabel tell you this?” 

“How can she help complaining? She is 
vera ill, and she sees little o’ thee, David, she 
says.” 

“Yes, she is ill. She took cold at Provost 


FACING HIS FNEMY. 


195 


Allison’s ball, and she has dwined away ever 
since. That is true. And the house is neglect- 
ed, and the servants do their own will both with 
it and the poor children. I have been very 
wretched. Uncle John, lately, and I am afraid I 
have drunk more than I ought to have done. 
Robert and I do not hit together as we used to; 
he is always fault-finding, and ever since that 
visit from his cousin who is settled in America he 
has been dissatisfied and heartless. His cousin 
has made himself a rich man in ten years there; 
and Robert says we shall ne’er make money here 
till we are too old to enjoy it.” 

‘‘I heard tell, too, that Robert has been spec- 
ulating in railway stock. Such reports, true or 
false, hurt you, David. Prudent men dinna like 
to trust speculators. ’ ’ 

“I think the report is true; but then it is out 
of his private savings he speculates. ’ ’ 

“Davie, gie me your word that you wont 
touch a drop o’ whiskey for a week — just for a 
week. ’ ’ 

“I cannot do it, uncle. I should be sure to 
break it. I don’t want to tell you a lie.” 

“O Davie, Davie ! Will you try, then?” 

“I’ll try, uncle. Ask Jenny to go and see 
the children.” 

“’Deed she shall go; she’ll be fain to do it. 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


196 

Let tliem come and stay wi’ me till tlieir mother 
is mair able to look after them. ’ ’ 

Jenny heard the story that night with a dour 
face. She could have said some very bitter things 
about Deacon Strang’s daughter, but in consider- 
ation of her sickness she forbore. The next morn- 
ing she went to David’s house and had a talk with 
Isabel. The poor woman was so ill that Jenny 
had no heart to scold her; she only gave the house 
“a good sorting,” did what she could for Isabel’s 
comfort, and took back with her the children and 
their nurse. It was at her suggestion John saw 
David the next day, and offered to send Isabel to 
the mild climate of Devonshire. ‘‘She ’ll die if 
she stays in Glasgo’ through the winter,” he 
urged, and David consented. Then, as David 
could not leave his business, John himself took 
the poor woman to Torbay, and no one but she 
and God ever knew how tenderly he cared for her, 
and how solemnly he tried to prepare her for the 
great change he saw approaching. She had not 
thought of death before, but when they parted he 
knew she had understood him, for weeping bit- 
terly, she said, “You will take care of the chil- 
dren, Uncle John? I fear I shall see them no 
more. ’ ’ 

“ I will, Isabel. While I live I will.” 

“ And, O uncle, poor David ! I have not been 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


197 


a good wife to him. Whatever happens, think of 
that and judge him mercifully. It is my fault, 
uncle, my fault, my fault ! God forgive me !” 

“Nae, nae, lassie; I am far from innocent 
mysel’;” and with these mournful accusations 
they parted for ever. 

For Isabel’s sickness suddenly assumed an 
alarming character, and her dissolution was so 
rapid that John had scarcely got back to Glasgow 
ere David was sent for to see his wife die. He 
came back a bereaved and very wretched man ; 
the great house was dismantled and sold, and he 
went home once more to Blytheswood Square. 

But he could not go back to his old innocent 
life and self ; and the change only revealed to 
John how terribly far astray his nephew had gone. 
And even Isabel’s death had no reforming influ- 
ence on him ; it only roused regrets and self-re- 
proaches, which made liquor all the more neces- 
sary to him. Then the breaking up of the house 
entailed much bargain-making, all of which was 
unfortunately cemented with glasses of whiskey 
toddy. Still his uncle had some new element of 
hope on which to work. David’s home was now 
near enough to his place of business to afford no 
excuse for remaining away all night. The chil- 
dren were not to be hid away in some upper room ; 
John was determined they should be at the table 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


198 

and on the hearthstone ; and surely their father 
would respect their innocence and keep himself 
sober for their sakes. 

“It is the highest earthly motive I can gie 
him,” argued the anxious old man, “and he has 
aye had grace enough to keep out o’ my sight 
when he wasna himsel’ ; he ’ll ne’er let wee John 
and Flora and Davie see him when the whiskey 
is aboon the will and the wit — that ’s no to be 
believed. ’ ’ 

And for a time it seemed as if John’s tactics 
would prevail. There were many evenings when 
they were very happy. The children made so 
gay the quiet old parlor, and David learning to 
know his own boys and girl, was astonished at 
their childish beauty and intelligence. Often 
John could not bear to break up the pleasant 
evening time, and David and he would sit softly 
talking in the firelight, with little John musing 
quietly between them, and Flora asleep on her 
uncle’s lap. Then Jenny would come gently in 
and out and say tenderly, ‘ ‘ Hadna the bairns bet- 
ter come awa to their beds?” and the old man 
would answer, “Bide a bit, Jenny, woman,” for 
he thought every such hour was building up a 
counter influence against the snare of strong 
drink. 

But there is no voice in human nature that 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


199 


can say autlioritatively, '''' Return David felt 
all the sweet influences with which he was sur- 
rounded, but, it must be admitted, they were 
sometimes an irritation to him. His business 
troubles, and his disagreements with his partner, 
were increasing rapidly ; for Robert — whose hopes 
were set on America — was urging him to close the 
mill before their liabilities were any larger. He 
refused to believe longer in the future making 
good what they had lost; and certainly it was up- 
hill work for David to struggle against accumula- 
ting bills, and a partner whose heart was not with 
him. 

One night at the close of the year, David did 
not come home to dinner, and John and the chil- 
dren ate it alone. He was very anxious, and he 
had not much heart to talk; but he kept the two 
eldest with him until little Flora’s head dropped, 
heavy with sleep, on his breast. Then a sudden 
thought seemed to strike him, and he sent them, 
almost hurriedly, away. He had scarcely done 
so when there was a shuffling noise in the hall, 
the parlor-door was flung open with a jar, and 
David staggered towards him — drunk ! 

In a moment, John’s natural temper conquered 
him; he jumped to his feet, and said passionately, 

‘ ‘ How daur ye, sir ? Get out o’ my house, you 
sinfu’ lad!” Then, with a great cry he smote 


200 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


his hands together and bowed his head upon 
them, weeping slow, heavy drops, that came each 
with a separate pang. His agony touched David, 
though he scarcely comprehended it. Not all at 
once is the tender conscience seared, and the ten- 
der heart hardened. 

“Uncle,” he said in a maudlin, hesitating 
way, which it would be a sin to imitate — “Uncle 
John, I’m not drunk, I’m in trouble; I’m in 
trouble. Uncle John. Do n’t cry about me. I ’m 
not worth it. ’ ’ 

Then he sank down upon the sofa, and, after 
a few more incoherent apologies, dropped into a 
deep sleep. 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


201 


CHAPTER V. 

John sat and looked at his fallen idol with a 
vacant, tear-stained face. He tried to pray a few 
words at intervals, but he was not yet able to 
gird up his soul and wrestle with this grief. 
When Jenny came in she was shocked at the 
gray, wretched look with which her master point- 
ed to the shameful figure on the sofa. Neverthe- 
less, she went gently to it, raised the fallen head 
to the pillow, and then went and got a blanket to 
cover the sleeper, muttering, 

“Poor fellow! There’s nae need to let him 
get a pleurisy, ony gate. Whatna for did ye no 
tell me, deacon ? Then I could hae made him a 
cup o’ warm tea.” 

She spoke as if she was angry, not at David, 
but at John; and, though it was only the natural 
instinct of a woman defending what she dearly 
loved, John gave it a different meaning, and it 
added to his suffering. 

“You are right, Jenny, woman,” he said 
humbly, “it is my fault. I mixed his first glass 
for him.” 

“Vera week Somebody aye mixes the first 
26 


202 


SCOTTISH SKCTCHES. 


glass. Somebody mixed your first glass. That 
is a bygane, and there is nae use at a’ speiring 
after it. How is the lad to be saved ? That is 
the question now. ’ ’ 

“O Jenny, then you dare to hope for his sal- 
vation ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I would think it far mair sinfu’ to despair o’ 
it. The Father has twa kinds o’ sons, deacon. 
Ye are ane like the elder brother; ye hae ‘served 
him many years and transgressed not at any time 
his commandment but this dear lad is his 
younger son — still his son, mind ye — and he’ll 
win hame again to his Father’s house. What for 
not? He’s the bairn o’ many prayers. Gae awa 
to your ain room, deacon; I’ll keep the watch wi’ 
him. He’d rather see me nor you when he 
comes to himsel’.” 

Alas ! the watch begun that night was one 
Jenny had very often to keep afterwards. David’s 
troubles gathered closer and closer round him, 
and the more trouble he had the deeper he drank. 
Within a month after that first shameful home- 
coming the firm of Callendar & Leslie went into 
sequestration. John felt the humiliation of this 
downcome in a far keener way than David did. 
His own business record was a stainless one ; his 
\vord was as good as gold on Glasgow Exchange ; 
the house of John Callendar & Co. was synony- 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 203 

moiis with, commercial integrity. The prudent 
burghers who were his nephew’s creditors were 
far from satisfied with the risks David and Rob- 
ert Deslie had taken, and they did not scruple to 
call them by words which hurt John Callendar’s 
honor like a sword-thrust. He did not doubt 
that many blamed him for not interfering in his 
nephew’s extravagant business methods; and he 
could not explain to these people how peculiarly 
he was situated with regard to David’s affairs ; 
nor, indeed, would many of them have under- 
stood the fine delicacy which had dictated John’s 
course. 

It was a wretched summer every way. The 
accountant who had charge of David’s affairs was 
in no hurry to close up a profitable engagement, 
and the creditors, having once accepted the prob- 
able loss, did not think it worth while to deny 
themselves their seaside or Highland trips to at- 
tend meetings relating to Callendar & Reslie. So 
there was little progress made in the settlement of 
affairs all summer, and David was literally out of 
employment. His uncle’s and his children’s pres- 
ence was a reproach to him, and Robert and he 
only irritated each other with mutual reproaches. 
Before autumn brought back manufacturers and 
merchants to their factories and offices David had 
sunk still lower. He did not come home any 


204 


SCOTTISH ske:tchks. 


more when he felt that he had drunk too much. 
He had found out houses where such a condition 
was the natural and the most acceptable one — 
houses whose doors are near to the gates of hell. 

This knowledge shocked John inexpressibly, 
and in the depth of his horror and grief he craved 
some human sympathy. 

‘ ‘ I must go and see Dr. Morrison, ’ ’ he said one 
night to Jenny. 

“And you’ll do right, deacon; the grip o’ his 
hand and the shining o’ his eyes in yours will do 
you good; forbye, you ken weel you arena fit to 
guide yoursel’, let alane Davie. You are too 
angry, and angry men tell many a lie to them- 
sel’s.” 

There is often something luminous in the face 
of a good man, and Dr. Morrison had this peculi- 
arity in a remarkable degree. His face seemed to 
radiate light; moreover, he was a man anointed 
with the oil of gladness above his fellows, and 
John no sooner felt the glow of that radiant coun- 
tenance on him than his heart leaped up to wel- 
come it. 

“Doctor,” he said, choking back his sorrow, 
“doctor, I ’m fain to see you.” 

“John, sit down. What is it, John?” 

“It’s David, minister.” 

And then John slowly, and weighing every 


FACING HIS KNFMY. 205 

word SO as to be sure he neither over-stated nor 
under-stated the case, opened up his whole heart’s 
sorrow. 

‘‘ I hae suffered deeply, minister; I didna think 
life could be such a tragedy.” 

“A tragedy indeed, John, but a tragedy with 
an angel audience. Think of that. Paul says 
‘ we are a spectacle unto men and angels. ’ Mind 
how you play your part. What is David doing 
now?” 

“ Nothing. His affairs are still unsettled.” 

“ But that wont do, John. Men learn to do ill 
by doing what is next to it — nothing. Without 
some duty life cannot hold itself erect. If a man 
has no regular calling he is an unhappy man and 
a cross man, and I think prayers should be offered 
up for his wife and children and a’ who have to 
live with him. Take David into your own em- 
ploy at once. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ O minister, that I canna do ! My office has 
aye had God-fearing, steady men in it, and I can- 
na, and — ” 

“ ‘ And that day Jesus was guest in the house 
of a man that was a sinner.’ John, can’t you 
take a sinner as a servant into your office ?’ ’ 

“ I ’ll try it, minister.” 

“ And, John, it will be a hard thing to do, but 
you must watch David constantly. You must 


206 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


follow him to liis drinking-haunts and take him 
home; if need be, you must follow him to warse 
places and take him home. You must watch him 
as if all depended on your vigilance, and you 
must pray for him as if nothing depended on it. 
You hae to conquer on your knees before you go 
into the world to fight your battle, John. But 
think, man, what a warfare is set before you — the 
saving of an immortal soul ! And I ’m your friend 
and helper in the matter ; the lad is one o’ my 
stray lambs ; he belongs to my fold. Go your 
ways in God’s strength, John, for this grief o’ 
yours shall be crowned with consolation.” 

It is impossible to say how this conference 
strengthened John Callendar. Naturally a very 
choleric man, he controlled himself into a great 
patience with his erring nephew. He watched' 
for him like a father; nay, more like a mother’s 
was the thoughtful tenderness of his care. And 
David was often so touched by the love and for- 
bearance shown him, that he made passionate ac- 
knowledgments of his sin and earnest efforts to 
conquer it. Sometimes for a week together he 
abstained entirely, though during these intervals 
of reason he was very trying. His remorse, his 
shame, his physical suffering, were so great that 
he needed the most patient tenderness; and yet he 
frequently resented this tenderness in a moody, 


FACING HIS ENKMY. 207 

sullen way that was a shocking contrast to his 
once bright and alBfectionate manner. 

So things went on until the close of the year. 
By that time the affairs of the broken firm had 
been thoroughly investigated, and it was found 
that its liabilities were nearly ;^20,ooo above its 
assets. Suddenly, however, bundle wools took an 
enormous rise, and as the stock of ‘ ‘ Callendar & 
Leslie ’ ’ was mainly of this kind, they were pushed 
on the m.arket, and sold at a rate which reduced 
the firm’s debts to about 7,000. This piece of 
good fortune only irritated David ; he was sure 
now that if Robert had continued the fight they 
would have been in a position to clear themselves. 
Still, whatever credit was due the transaction 
was frankly given to David. It was his commer- 
cial instinct that had divined the opportunity and 
seized it, and a short item in the ‘ ‘ Glasgow Her- 
ald ’ ’ spoke in a cautiously flattering way of the 
affair. 

Both John and David were greatly pleased at 
the circumstance. David also had been perfectly 
sober during the few days he had this stroke of 
business in hand, and the public acknowledg- 
ment of his service to the firm’s creditors was par- 
ticularly flattering to him. He came down to 
breakfast that morning as he had not come for 
months. It was a glimpse of the old Davie back 


208 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


again, and John was as happy as a child in the 
vision. Into his heart came at once Dr. Morri- 
son’s assertion that David must have some regu- 
lar duty to keep his life erect. It was evident 
that the obligation of a trust had a controlling 
influence over him. 

“David,” he said cheerfully, “you must hae 
nearly done wi’ that first venture o’ yours. The 
next will hae to redeem it; that is all about it. 
Everything is possible to a man under forty years 
auld. ’ ’ 

“We have our final meeting this afternoon, 
uncle. I shall lock the doors for ever to-night.” 

“And your debts are na as much as you ex- 
pected. ’ ’ 

“They will not be over 7,000, and they 
may be considerably less. I hope to make an- 
other sale this morning. There are yet three 
thousand bundles in the stock. ’ ’ 

“David, I shall put ;^20,ooo in your ain name 
and for your ain use, whatever that use may be, 
in the Western Bank this morning. I think 
you’ll do the best thing you can do to set your 
name clear again. If you are my boy you 
will.” 

“Uncle John, you cannot really mean that I 
may pay every shilling I owe, and go back on 
the Exchange with a white name ? O uncle, if 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 209 

you should mean this, what a man you would 
make of me !’’ 

“ It is just what I mean to do, Davie. Is na 
all that I have yours and your children’s? But 
oh, I thank God that you hae still a heart that 
counts honor more than gold. David, after this 
I wont let go one o’ the hopes I have ever had for 
you. ’ ’ 

“You need not, uncle. Please God, and with 
his help, I will make every one of them good. ’ ’ 

And he meant to do it. He never had felt 
more certain of himself or more hopeful for the 
future than when he went out that morning. 
He touched nothing all day, and as the short, 
dark afternoon closed in, he went cheerfully to- 
wards the mill, with his new check-book in his 
pocket and the assurance in his heart that in a 
few hours he could stand up among his fellow- 
citizens free from the stain of debt. 

His short speech at the* final meeting was so 
frank and manly, and so just and honorable to his 
uncle, that it roused a quiet but deep enthusiasm. 
Many of the older men had to wipe the mist from 
their glasses, and the heaviest creditor stood up 
and took David’s hand, saying, “Gentlemen, I 
hae made money, and I hae saved money, and I 
hae had money left me; but I never made, nor 
saved, nor got money that gave me such honest 
27 


210 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


pleasure as this siller I hae found in twa honest 
men’s hearts. Let ’s hae in the toddy and drink 
to the twa Callendars.” 

Alas ! alas ! how often is it our friends from 
whom we ought to pray to be preserved. The 
man meant kindly; he was a good man, he was a 
God-fearing man, and even while he was setting 
temptation before his poor, weak brother, he was 
thinking ‘ ‘ that money so clean and fair and un- 
expected should be given to some holy purpose.” 
But the best of us are the slaves of habit and 
chronic thoughtlessness. All his life he had sig- 
nalled every happy event by a libation of toddy; 
everybody else did the same; and although he 
knew David’s weakness, he did not think of it 
in connection with that wisest of all prayers, 
“ Lead us not into temptation.” 


FACING HIS ENFMY. 


2II 


CHAPTER VI. 

David ought to have left then, but he did not; 
and when his uncle’s health was given,^ and the 
glass of steaming whiskey stood before him, he 
raised it to his lips and drank. It was easy to 
drink the second glass and the third, and so on. 
The men fell into reminiscence and song, and no 
one knew how many glasses were mixed; and 
even w^hen they stood at the door they turned 
back for “a thimbleful o’ raw speerit to keep out 
the cold,” for it had begun to snow, and there 
was a chill, wet, east wind. 

Then they went ; and when their forms were 
lost in the misty gloom, and even their voices had 
died away, David turned back to put out the 
lights, and lock the mill-door for the last time. 
Suddenly it struck him that he had not seen Rob- 
ert Leslie for an hour at least, and while he was 
wondering about it in a vague, drunken way, 
Robert came out of an inner room, white with 
scornful anger, and in a most quarrelsome 
mood. 

“You have made a nice fool of yoursel’, Da- 
vid Callendar ! Flinging awa so much gude gold 
for a speech and a glass o’ whiskey ! Ugh !” 


212 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“You may think so, Robert. The Leslies 
have always been ‘ rievers and thievers but the 
Callendars are of another stock. ’ ’ 

“The Callendars are like ither folk — good 
and bad, and mostly bad. Money, not honor, 
rules the warld in these days; and when folk have 
turned spinners, what is the use o’ talking about 
honor ! Profit is a word more fitting. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I count myseP no less a Callendar than my 
great-grandfather, Evan Callendar, who led the 
last hopeless charge on Culloden. If I am a spin- 
ner, I’ll never be the first to smirch the roll o’ 
my house with debt and dishonesty, if I can help 
it.” 

“Pair nonsense! The height of nonsense! 
Your ancestors indeed ! Mules make a great to- 
do about their ancestors having been horses !” 

David retorted with hot sarcasm on the free- 
booting Leslies, and their kin the Armstrongs 
and Kennedys; and to Scotchmen this is the very 
sorest side of a quarrel. They can forgive a bit- 
ter word against themselves perhaps, but against 
their clan, or their dead, it is an unpardonable of- 
fence. And certainly Robert had an unfair ad- 
vantage; he was in a cool, wicked temper of envy 
and covetousness. He could have struck himself^ 
for not having foreseen that old John Callendar 
would be sure to clear the name of dishonor, and 


FACING HIS FNKMY. 21 3 

thus let David and his £ 20^000 slip out of his 
control. 

David had drunk enough to excite all the he- 
reditary fight in his nature, and not enough to 
dull the anger and remorse he felt for having 
drunk anything at all. The dreary, damp atmo- 
sphere and the cold, sloppy turf of Glasgow Green 
might have brought them back to the ordinary 
cares and troubles of every-day life, but it did not. 
This grim oasis in the very centre of the hardest 
and bitterest existences was now deserted. The 
dull, heavy swash of the dirty Clyde and the dis- 
tant hum of the sorrowful voices of humanity in 
the adjacent streets hardly touched the sharp, cut- 
ting accents of the two quarrelling men. No hu- 
man ears heard them, and no human eyes saw the 
uplifted hands and the sway and fall of Robert 
Leslie upon the smutty and half melted snow, 
except David’s. 

Yes; David saw him fall, and heard with a 
strange terror the peculiar thud and the long 
moan that followed it. It sobered him at once 
and completely. The shock was frightful. He 
stood for a moment looking at the upturned face, 
and then with a fearful horror he stooped and 
touched it. There was no response to either en- 
treaties or movement, and David was sure after 
five minutes’ efforts there never would be. Then 


214 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


his children, his uncle, his own life, pressed upon 
him like a surging crowd. His rapid mind took 
in the situation at once. There was no proof. 
Nobody had seen them leave together. Robert 
had certainly left the company an hour before it 
scattered ; none of them could know that he was 
waiting in that inner room. With a rapid step 
he took his way through Kent street into a region 
where he was quite unknown, and by a circuitous 
route reached the foot of Great George street. 

He arrived at home about eight o’clock. 
John had had his dinner, and the younger chil- 
dren had gone to bed. Tittle John sat opposite 
him on the hearthrug, but the old man and the 
child were both lost in thought. David’s face at 
once terrified his uncle. 

“Johnnie,” he said, with a weary pathos in 
his voice, “your father wants to see me alane. 
You had best say ‘ Gude-night, ’ my wee man.” 

The child kissed his uncle, and after a glance 
into his father’s face went quietly out. His little 
heart had divined that he ‘ ‘ must not disturb 
papa.” David’s eyes followed him with an al- 
most overmastering grief and love, but when John 
said sternly, “Now, David Callendar, what is it 
this time ?’ ’ he answered with a sullen despair, 

“It is the last trouble I can bring you. I 
have killed Robert Teslie !” 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


215 

The old man uttered a cry of horror, and stood 
looking at his nephew as if he doubted his san- 
ity. 

“ I am not going to excuse mysel’, sir. Rob- 
ert said some aggravating things, and he struck 
me first ; but that is neither here nor there. I 
struck him and he fell. I think he hit his head 
in falling ; but it was dark and stormy, I could 
not see. I do n’ t excuse myseP at all. I am as 
wicked and lost as a man can be. Just help me 
awa. Uncle John, and I will trouble you no more 
for ever. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Where hae you left Robert?’ ’ 

“Where he fell, about 300 yards above Ruth- 
ergleii Bridge.” 

“You are a maist unmerciful man! I ne’er 
liked Robert, but had he been my bitterest ene- 
my I would hae got him help if there was a 
chance for life, and if not, I would hae sought a 
shelter for his corpse. ’ ’ 

Then he walked to the parlor door, locked it, 
and put the key in his pocket. 

“ As for helping you awa, sir, I ’ll ne’er do it, 
ne’er; you hae sinned, and you’ll pay the pen- 
alty, as a man should do.” 

“Uncle, have mercy on me.” 

“Justice has a voice as weel as mercy. O 
waly, waly !” cried the wretched old man, going 


2i6 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


back to the pathetic Gaelic of his childhood, ‘‘O 
waly, waly ! to think o’ the sin and the shame o’ 
it. Plenty o’ Callendars hae died before their 
time, but it has been wi’ their faces to their foes 
and their claymores in their hands. O Davie, 
Davie ! my lad, my lad ! My Davie !” 

His agony shook him as a great wind shakes 
the tree-tops, and David stood watching him in a 
misery still keener and more hopeless. For a few 
moments neither spoke. Then John rose wearily 
and said, 

“ I ’ll go with you, David, to the proper place. 
Justice must be done — yes, yes, it is just and 
right.” 

Then he lifted up his eyes, and clasping his 
hands, cried out, 

“ But, O my heavenly Father, be merciful, be 
merciful, for love is the fulfilling of the law. 
Come, David, we hae delayed o’er long.” 

‘ ‘ Where are you going, uncle ?’ ’ 

‘‘You ken where weel enough.” 

‘ ‘ Dear uncle, be merciful. At least let us go 
see Dr. Morrison first. Whatever he says I will 
do.” 

“I’ll do that; I’ll be glad to do that; maybe 
he’ll find me a road out o’ this sair, sair strait. 
God help us all, for vain is the help o’ man.” 


FACING HIS FNFMY. 


217 


CHAPTER VII. 

When they entered Dr. Morrison’s house the 
doctor entered with them. He was wet through, 
and his swarthy face was in a glow of excitement. 
A stranger was with him, and this stranger he 
hastily took into a room behind the parlor, and 
then he came back to his visitors. 

“Well, John, what is the matter?” 

“ Murder. Murder is the matter, doctor,” and 
with a strange, quiet precision he went over Da- 
vid’s confession, for David had quite broken down 
and was sobbing with all the abandon of a little 
child. During the recital the minister’s face was 
wonderful in its changes of expression, but at the 
last a kind of adoring hopefulness was the most 
decided. 

“John,” he said, “what were you going to do 
wi’ that sorrowfu’ lad?” 

“ I was going to gie him up to justice, minis- 
ter, as it was right and just to do ; but first we 
must see about — about the body.” 

‘ ‘ That has, without doot, been already cared 
for. On the warst o’ nights there are plenty o’ 
folk passing o’er Glasgow Green after the tea- 
hour. It is David we must care for now. Why 
28 


2i8 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


should we gie him up to the law ? Not but what 
‘ the law is good, if a man use it lawfully.’ But 
see how the lad is weeping. Dinna mak yoursel’ 
hard to a broken heart, deacon. God himsel’ has 
promised to listen to it. You must go back hame 
and leave him wi’ me. And, John,” he said, 
with an air of triumph, as they stood at the door 
together, with the snow blowing in their uplifted 
faces, “John, my dear old brother John, go hame 
and bless God; for, I tell you, this thing shall turn 
out to be a great salvation. ’ ’ 

So John went home, praying as he went, and 
conscious of a strange hopefulness in the midst of 
his grief. The minister turned back to the sob- 
bing criminal, and touching him gently, said, 

‘ ‘ Davie, my son, come wi’ me. ’ ’ 

David rose hopelessly and followed him. 
They went into the room where they had seen 
the minister take the stranger who had entered 
the house with them. The stranger was still 
there, and as they entered he came gently and 
on tiptoe to meet them. ’ ’ 

“Dr. Fleming,” said the minister, “this is 
David Callendar, your patient’s late partner in 
business; he wishes to be the poor man’s nurse, 
and indeed, sir, I ken no one fitter for the duty.” 

So Dr. Fleming took David’s hand, and then 
in a low voice gave him directions for the night’s 


FACING HIS FNFMY. 


219 


watch, though David, in the sudden hope and re- 
lief that had come to him, could scarcely compre- 
hend them. Then the physician went, and the 
minister and David sat by the bedside alone. 
Robert lay in the very similitude and presence of 
death, unconscious both of his sufferings and his 
friends. Congestion of the brain had set in, and 
life was only revealed by the faintest pulsations, 
and by the appliances for relief which medical 
skill thought it worth while to make. 

“ ‘ And sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth 
death,’’’ said the doctor solemnly. “David, 
there is your work.” 

“God knows how patiently and willingly I ’ll 
do it, minister. Poor Robert, I never meant to 
harm him.” 

“ Now listen to me, and wonder at God’s mer- 
ciful ways. Auld Deacon Galbraith, who lives 
just beyond Rutherglen Bridge, sent me word 
this afternoon that he had gotten a summons from 
his Dord, and he would like to see my face ance 
mair before he went awa for ever. He has been 
my right hand in the kirk, and I loved him week 
Sae I went to bid him a short Gude-by — for we ’ll 
meet again in a few years at the niaist — and I 
found him sae glad and solemnly happy within 
sight o’ the heavenly shore, that I tarried wi’ him 
a few hours, and we ate and drank his last sacra- 


220 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


ment together. He dropped my hand wi’ a smile 
at half-past six o’clock, and after comforting his 
wife and children a bit I turned my face hame- 
ward. But I was in that mood that I didna care 
to sit i’ a crowded omnibus, and I wanted to be 
moving wi’ my thoughts. The falling snow and 
the deserted Green seemed good to me, and I 
walked on thinking o’er again the deacon’s last 
utterances, for they were wise and good even be- 
yond the man’s nature. That is how I came 
across Robert Leslie. I thought he was dead, 
but I carried him in my arms to the House o’ the 
Humane Society, which, you ken, isna one hun- 
dred yards from where Robert fell. The officer 
there said he wasna dead, sae I brought him here 
and went for the physician you spoke to. Now, 
Davie, it is needless for me to say main You 
ken what I expect o’ you. You ’ll get no whis- 
key in this house, not a drop o’ it. If the sick 
man needs anything o’ that kind, I shall gie it 
wi’ my ain hand; and you wont leave this house, 
David, until I see whether Robert is to live or 
die. You must gie me your word o’ honor for 
that.” 

‘‘ Minister, pray what is my word worth?” 

^‘Everything it promises, David Callendar. I 
would trust your word afore I ’d trust a couple o’ 
constables, for a’ that’s come and gane.” 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


221 


‘‘Thank you, thank you, doctor ! You shall 
not trust, and be deceived. I solemnly promise 
you to do my best for Robert, and not to leave 
your house until I have your permission. ’ ’ 

The next morning Dr. Morrison was at John 
Callendar’s before he sat down to breakfast. He 
had the morning paper with him, and he pointed 
out a paragraph which ran thus: “Robert Deslie, 
of the late firm of Callendar & Teslie, was found 
by the Rev. Dr. Morrison in an unconscious con- 
dition on the Green last night about seven o’clock. 
It is supposed the young gentleman slipped and 
fell, and in the fall struck his head, as congestion 
of the brain has taken place. He lies at Dr. Mor- 
rison’s house, and is being carefully nursed by his 
late partner, though there is but little hope of his 
recovery.” 

“ Minister, it wasna you surely wha concocted 
this lie?” 

“ Nobody has told a lie, John. Do n’t be over- 
righteous, man; there is an unreasonableness o’ 
virtue that savors o’ pride. I really thought Rob- 
ert had had an accident, until you told me the 
truth o’ the matter. The people at the Humane 
Society did the same ; sae did Dr. Fleming. I 
suppose some reporter got the information from 
one o’ the latter sources. But if Robert gets well, 
we may let it stand; and if he doesna get well, I 


222 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

shall seek counsel o’ God before I take a step far- 
ther. In the meantime David is doing his first 
duty in nursing him; and David will stay in my 
house till I see whether it be a case o’ murder or 
not. ’ ’ 

For three weeks there was but the barest pos- 
sibility of Robert’s recovery. But his youth and 
fine constitution, aided by the skill of his physi- 
cian and the unremitting care of his nurse, were 
at length, through God’s mercy, permitted to gain 
a slight advantage. The discipline of that three 
weeks was a salutary though a terrible one to 
David. Sometimes it became almost intolerable; 
but always, when it reached this point. Dr. Mor- 
rison seemed, by some fine spiritual instinct, to 
discover the danger and hasten to his assistance. 
Life has silences more pathetic than death’s; and 
the stillness of that darkened room, with its white 
prostrate figure, was a stillness in which David 
heard many voices he never would have heard in 
the crying out of the noisy world. 

What they said to him about his wasted youth 
and talents, and about his neglected Saviour, only 
his own heart knew. But he must have suffered 
very much, for, at the end of a month, he looked 
like a man who had himself walked through the 
valley and shadow of death. About this time 
Dr. Morrison began to drop in for an hour or two 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


223 


every evening; sometimes he took his cup of tea 
with the young men, and then he always talked 
with David on passing events in such a way as to 
interest without fatiguing the sick man. His 
first visit of this kind was marked by a very affect- 
ing scene. He stood a moment looking at Rob- 
ert, and then taking David’s hand, he laid it in 
Robert’s. But the young men had come to a per- 
fect reconciliation one midnight when the first 
gleam of consciousness visited the sick man, and 
Dr. Morrison was delighted to see them grasp 
each other with a smile, while David stooped and 
lovingly touched his friend’s brow. 

“Doctor, it was my fault,” whispered Robert. 
“ If I die, remember that. I did my best to an- 
ger Davie, and I struck him first. I deserved all 
I have had to suffer. ’ ’ 

After this, however, Robert recovered rapidly, 
and in two months he was quite well. 

“ David,” said the minister to him one mom- 
ing, “your trial is nearly over. I have a mes- 
sage from Captain Daird to Robert Deslie. Laird 
sails to-night; his ship has dropped down the 
river a mile, and Robert must leave when the 
tide serves; that will be at five o’clock.” 

For Robert had shrunk from going again into 
his Glasgow life, and had determined to sail 
with his friend Laird at once for New York. 


224 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


There was no one he loved more dearly than 
David and Dr. Morrison, and with them his 
converse had been constant and very happy and 
hopeful. He wished to leave his old life with 
this conclusion to it unmingled with any other 
memories. 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


225 


CHAPTER VIII. 

So that evening the three men went in a 
coach to the Broomilaw together. A boat and 
two watermen were in waiting at the bridge-stair, 
and though the evening was wet and chilly they 
all embarked. No one spoke. The black waters 
washed and heaved beneath them, the myriad 
lights shone vaguely through the clammy mist 
and steady drizzle, and the roar of the city blend- 
ed with the stroke of the oars and the patter of 
the rain. Only when they lay under the hull of 
a large ship was the silence broken. But it was 
broken by a blessing. 

“God bless you, Robert! The Lord Jesus, 
our Redeemer, make you a gude man,’’ said Dr. 
Morrison fervently, and David whispered a few 
broken words in his friend’s ear. Then Captain 
Laird’s voice was heard, and in a moment or two 
more they saw by the light of a lifted lantern Rob- 
ert’s white face in the middle of a group on deck. 

“ Farewell !” he shouted feebly, and Dr. Mor- 
rison answered it with a lusty, “God speed you, 
Robert! God speed the good ship and all on 
board of her !” 

So they went silently back again, and stepped 
29 


226 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


into the muddy, dreamlike, misty streets, wet 
through and quite weary with emotion. 

“Now gude-night, David. Your uncle is 
waiting dinner for you. I hae learned to love 
you vera much. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Is there anything I can do, doctor, to show 
you how much I love and respect you ?’ ’ 

“You can be a good man, and you can let me 
see you every Sabbath in your place at kirk. 
Heaven’s gate stands wide open on the Sabbath 
day, David; sae it is a grand time to offer your 
petitions. ’ ’ 

Yes, the good old uncle was waiting, but with 
that fine instinct which is born of a true love he 
had felt that David would like no fuss made 
about his return. He met him as if he had only 
been a few hours away, and he had so tutored 
Jenny that she only betrayed her joy by a look 
which David and she understood well. 

“The little folks,” said John, “have a’ gane 
to their beds; the day has been that wet and wea- 
risome that they were glad to gae to sleep and 
forget a’ about it. ’ ’ 

David sat down in his old place, and the two 
men talked of the Russian war and the probable 
storming of the Alamo. Then John took his 
usual after-dinner nap, and David went up stairs 
with Jenny and kissed his children, and said a 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 227 

few words to them and to the old woman, which 
made them all very happy. 

When he returned to the parlor his uncle was 
still sleeping, and he could see how weary and 
worn he had become. 

‘ ‘ So patient, so generous, so honorable, so 
considerate for my feelings, ’ ’ said the young man 
to himself. ‘ ‘ I should be an ingrate indeed if I 
did not, as soon as he wakes, say what I know he 
is so anxious to hear.” 

With the thought John opened his eyes, and 
David nodded and smiled back to him. How 
alert and gladly he roused himself ! How cheerily 
he said, 

‘‘Why, Davie, I hae been sleeping, I doot. 
Hech, but it is gude to see you, lad.” 

‘ ‘ Please God, uncle, it shall always be gude 
to see me. Can you give me some advice to- 
night ?’ ’ 

“ I ’ll be mair than glad to do it.” 

“Tell me frankly. Uncle John, what you 
think I ought to do. I saw Robert off to America 
to-night. Shall I follow him ?’ ’ 

“ Davie, mind what I say. In the vera place 
where a man loses what he values, there he should 
look to find it again. You hae lost your good 
name in Glasgow; stay in Glasgow and find it 
again.” 


228 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


^ ‘ I will stay here then. What shall I do ?’ ’ 
‘‘You’ll go back to your old place, and to 
your old business.” 

“But I heard that Deacon Strang had bought 
the looms and the lease. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He bought them for me, for us, I mean. I 
will tell you how that came about. One day 
when I was cross, and sair put out wi’ your 
affairs, Davie, Dr. Morrison came into my office. 
I’m feared I wasna glad to see him; and though 
I was ceevil enough, the wise man read me like a 
book. ‘John,’ says he, ‘I am not come to ask 
you for siller to-day, nor am I come to reprove 
you for staying awa from the service o’ God 
twice lately. I am come to tell you that you will 
hae the grandest opportunity to-day, to be, not 
only a man, but a Christ-man. If you let the 
opportunity slip by you, I shall feel sairly troubled 
about it’ 

“Then he was gone before I could say, ‘ What 
is it ?’ and I wondered and wondered all day what 
he could hae meant But just before I was ready 
to say, ‘ Mr. MacFarlane, lock the safe,’ in walks 
Deacon Strang. He looked vera downcast and 
shamefaced, and says he, ‘ Callendar, you can tak 
your revenge on me to-morrow, for a’ I hae said 
and done against you for thirty years. You hold 
twa notes o’ mine, and I canna meet them. 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 229 

You ’ll hae to protest and post them to-morrow, 
and that will ruin me and break my heart. ’ 

‘‘David, I had to walk to the window and 
hide my face till I could master mysel’, I was 
that astonished. Then I called out, ‘ Mr. Mac- 
Farlane, you hae two notes o’ Deacon Strang’s, 
bring them to me.’ When he did sae, I said, 
‘Well, deacon, we a’ o’ us hae our ain fashes. 
How long time do you want, and we’ll renew 
these bits o’ paper ?’ 

“And the thing was done, Davie, and done 
that pleasantly that it made me feel twenty years 
younger. We shook hands when we parted, and 
as we did sae, the deacon said, ‘ Is there aught I 
can do to pleasure you or David ?’ and a’ at once 
it struck me about the sales o’ the looms and 
lease. Sae I said, ‘ Yes, deacon, there is some- 
thing you can do, and I ’ll be vera much obliga- 
ted to you for the same. Davie is sae tied down 
wi’ Robert’s illness, will you go to the sale o’ 
Callendar & Leslie’s looms and lease, and buy 
them for me? You’ll get them on better terms 
than I will.’ And he did get them on excellent 
terms, Davie; sae your mill is just as you left it — 
for Bailie Nicol, wha took it at the accountant’s 
valuation, never opened it at all. And you hae 
twenty months’ rent paid in advance, and you hae 
something in the bank I expect. ’ ’ 


230 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“ I have /'3,6 oo, uncle.” 

“Now, I’ll be your partner this time. I’ll 
put in the business ;^4,ooo, but I ’ll hae it run on 
a solid foundation, however small that foundation 
may be. I ’ll hae no risks taken that are dishon- 
est risks; I’ll hae a broad mark made between 
enterprise and speculation; and above a’, I ’ll hae 
the right to examine the books, and see how 
things are going on, whenever I wish to do sae. 
We will start no more looms than our capital will 
work, and we’ll ask credit from no one.” 

“ Uncle John, there is not another man in the 
world so generous and unselfish as you are. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ There are plenty as good men in every con- 
gregation o’ the Uord; if there wasna they would 
scatter in no time. Then you are willing, are 
you? Gie me your hand, Davie. I shall look 
to you to do your best for baith o’ us. ’ ’ 

“I have not drunk a drop for two months, 
uncle. I never intend to drink again.” 

“I hae given it up mysel’,” said the old man, 
with an affected indifference that was pathetic 
in its self-abnegation. ‘ ‘ I thought twa going a 
warfare together might do better than ane alone. 
Ye ken Christ sent out the disciples by twa and 
twa. And, Davie, when you are hard beset, just 
utter the name of Christ down in your heart, and 
see how much harder it is to sin.” 


FACING HIS FNKMY. 


231 


CHAPTER IX. 

The arrangement had been a very pleasant 
one, every way, but somehow John did not feel 
as if David had as much outside help as he needed. 
The young man was not imaginative; an ideal, 
however high, was a far less real thing to David 
than to old John. He pondered during many 
sleepless hours the advisability of having David 
sign the pledge. David had always refused to do 
it hitherto. He had a keen sense of shame in 
breaking a verbal promise on this subject; but he 
had an almost superstitious feeling regarding the 
obligation of anything he put his name to; and 
this very feeling made John hesitate to press the 
matter. For, he argued, and not unwisely, “if 
David should break this written obligation, his 
condition would seem to himself irremediable, 
and he would become quite reckless. ’ ’ 

In the morning this anxiety was solved. When 
John came down to breakfast, he found David 
walking about the room with a newspaper in his 
hand, and in a fever heat of martial enthusiasm. 
“ Uncle, he cried, “O Uncle John, such glori- 
ous news ! The Alamo is taken. Colin Camp- 
bell and his Highlanders were first at the ram- 


232 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

parts, and Roy and Hector Callendar were with 
them. Listen?’’ and he threw the passion and 
fervor of all his military instincts into the glow- 
ing words which told, how in a storm of fire and 
shot, Sir Colin and his Highland regiment had 
pushed up the hill ; and how when the Life Guards 
were struggling to reach their side, the brave old 
commander turned round and shouted, “We’ll 
hae nane but Hieland bonnets here!” “O Un- 
cle John, what would I not have given to have 
marched with Roy and Hector behind him? 
With such a leader I would not turn my back on 
any foe.” 

“David, you have a far harder fight before 
you, and a far grander Captain. ’ ’ 

“Uncle, uncle, if I could see my foe; if I 
could meet him face to face in a real fight; but 
he steals into my heart, even by my nostrils, and 
unmans me, before I am aware.” 

John rang the bell sharply, and when Jenny 
came, he amazed her by saying, ‘ ‘ Bring me here 
from the cellar three bottles of whiskey.” He 
spoke so curt and determined that for once Jenny 
only wondered, and obeyed. 

‘ ‘ That will do, my woman. ’ ’ Then he turned 
to David, and putting one bottle on the table 
said, “There is your foe! Face your enemy, 
sir! Sit down before him morning, noon, and 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


233 


night. Dare him to master you ! Put this bot- 
tle on the table in your ain room; carry this in 
your hand to your office, and stand it before your 
eyes upon your desk. If you want a foe to face 
and to conquer, a foe that you can see and touch, 
here is one mighty enough to stir the bravest soul. 
And, if you turn your back on him you are a 
coward; a mean, poor-hearted coward, sir. And 
there ne’er was a coward yet, o’ the Callendar 
blood, nor o’ the Campbell line ! Your Captain 
is nane less than the Son o’ God. Hear what 
he says to you ! ‘ To him that overcometh ! To 

him that overcometh !’ O Davie, you ken the 
rest !’ ’ and the old man was so lifted out of and 
above himself, that his face shone and his keen 
gray eyes scintillated with a light that no mar- 
ket-place ever saw in them. 

David caught the holy enthusiasm; he seized 
the idea like a visible hand of God for his help. 
The black bottle became to him the materialisa- 
tion of all his crime and misery. It was a foe he 
could see, and touch, and defy. It seemed to 
mock him, to tempt him, to beg him just to open 
the cork, if only to test the strength of his reso- 
lutions. 

Thank God he never did it. He faced his 
enemy the first thing in the morning and the 
last thing at night. He kept him in sight through 
30 


234 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


the temptations of a business day. He faced him 
most steadily in the solitude of his own room. 
There, indeed, his most dangerous struggles took 
place, and one night John heard him after two 
hours of restless hurried walking up and down, 
throw open his window, and dash the bottle upon 
the pavement beneath it. 

That was the last of his hard struggles ; the 
bottle which replaced the one flung beyond his 
reach stands to-day where it has stood for nearly 
a quarter of a century, and David feels now no 
more inclination to open it than if it contained 
strychnine. 

This is no fancy story. It is a fact. It is the 
true history of a soul’s struggle, and I write it — 
God knows I do — in the strong hope that some 
brave fellow, who is mastered by a foe that steals 
upon him in the guise of good fellowship, or 
pleasure, or hospitality, may locate his enemy, 
and then face and conquer him in the name of 
Him who delivers his people from their sins. I 
do not say that all natures could do this. Some 
may find safety and final victory in flight, or in 
hiding from their foe; but I believe that the 
majority of souls would rise to a warfare in which 
the enemy was confronting them to face and 
fight, and would conquer. 

I have little more to say of David Callendar. 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


235 


It was the story of his fall and his redemption 
I intended to write. But we cannot separate 
our spiritual and mortal life; they are the warp 
and woof which we weave together for eternity. 
Therefore David’s struggle, though a palpable 
one in some respects, was, after all, an intensely 
spiritual one; for it was in the constant recogni- 
tion of Christ as the Captain of his salvation, and 
in the constant use of such spiritual aids as his 
Bible and his minister gave him, that he was en- 
abled to fight a good fight and to come off* more 
than conqueror in a contest wherein so many 
strive and fail. 

David’s reformation had also a very sensible 
influence on his business prosperity. He has won 
back again now all, and far more than all, he 
lost, and in all good and great works for the wel- 
fare of humanity David Callendar is a willing 
worker and a noble giver. The new firm of John 
and David Callender acquired a world- wide repu- 
tation. It is still John and David Callendar, for 
when the dear old deacon died he left his interest 
in it to David’s eldest son, a pious, steady young 
fellow for whom nobody ever mixed a first glass. 
But God was very kind to John in allowing him 
to see the full harvest of his tender love, his pa- 
tience, and his unselfishness. Out of his large 
fortune he left a noble endowment for a church 


236 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

and college in his native town, making only two 
requests concerning its management: first, that no 
whiskey should ever go within the college walls: 
second, that all the children in the town might 
have a holiday on the anniversary of his death; 
“for,” said he, “I have aye loved children, and 
I w^ould fain connect the happiness of childhood 
with the peace o’ the dead. ’ ’ 

Dr. Morrison lived long enough to assist in 
filling in the grave of his old friend and helper, 
but attained unto the beginning of peace and 
glory soon afterwards. And I have often pic- 
tured to myself the meeting of those two upon the 
hills of God. The minister anticipated it, though 
upon his dying bed his great soul forgot all indi- 
vidualities, and thought only of the church uni- 
versal, and his last glowing words were, “For 
Jerusalem that is above is free, which is the mo- 
ther of us all. ” 

Robert Teslie has done well in America, and 
no man is a more warm and earnest advocate of 
“the faith once delivered to the saints.” I read 
a little speech of his some time ago at the dedica- 
tion of a church, and it greatly pleased me. 

“Many things,” he said, “have doubtless 
been improved in this age, for man’s works are 
progressive and require improvement; but who,” 
he asked, “can improve the sunshine and the 


FACING HIS ENEMY. 


237 


flowers, the wheat and the corn ? And who will 
give us anything worthy to take the place of the 
religion of our fathers and mothers ? And what 
teachers have come comparable to Christ, to Da- 
vid, Isaiah, and Paul?” 

Jenny only died a year ago. She brought up 
David’s children admirably, and saw, to her great 
delight, the marriage of Flora and young Captain 
Callendar. For it had long been her wish to go 
back to Argyleshire ‘ ‘ among her ain folk and die 
among the mountains,” and this marriage satis- 
fied all her longings. One evening they found 
her sitting in her open door with her face turned 
towards the cloud-cleaving hills. Her knitting 
had fallen upon her lap, her earthly work was 
done for ever, and she had put on the garments 
of the eternal Sabbath. But there was a wonder- 
ful smile on her simple, kindly face. Soul and 
body had parted with a smile. Oh, how happy 
are those whom the Master finds waiting for him, 
and who, when he calls, pass gently away ! 

“ Up to the golden citadel they fare, 

And as they go their limbs grow full of might; 

And One awaits them at the topmost stair, 

One whom they had not seen, but knew at sight.” 



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Andrew Cargill’s Coiifessioii. 



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ANDREW CARGILL’S CONFESSION. 


CHAPTER I. 

Between Sinverness and CrefFel lies the val- 
ley of Glenmora. Sea Fells and Soutra Fells 
guard it on each hand, and the long, treacherous 
sweep of Solway Frith is its outlet. It is a region 
of hills and moors, inhabited by a people of sin- 
gular gravity and simplicity of character, a pas- 
toral people, who in its solemn high places have 
learned how to interpret the voices of winds and 
waters and to devoutly love their God. 

Most of them are of the purest Saxon origin ; 
but here and there one meets the massive features 
and the blue bonnet of the Lowland Scots, de- 
scendants of those stern Covenanters who from 
the coasts of Galloway and Dumfries sought ref- 
uge in the strength of these lonely hills. They 
are easily distinguished, and are very proud of 
their descent from this race whom 

“ God anointed with his odorous oil 
To wrestle, not to reign.” 

31 


243 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


Thirty years ago their leader and elder was 
Andrew Cargill, a man of the same lineage as 
that famous Donald Cargill who was the Boaner- 
ges of the Covenant, and who suffered martyrdom 
for his faith at the town of Queensferry. Andrew 
never forgot this fact, and the stern, just, uncom- 
promising spirit of the old Protester still lived in 
him. He was a man well-to-do in the world, and 
his comfortable stone house was one of the best 
known in the vale of Glenmora. 

People who live amid grand scenery are not 
generally sensitive to it, but Andrew was. The 
adoring spirit in which he stood one autumn 
evening at his own door was a very common mood 
with him. He looked over the moors carpeted 
with golden brown, and the hills covered with 
sheep and cattle, at the towering crags, more like 
clouds at sunset than things of solid land, at the 
children among the heather picking bilberries, at 
the deep, clear, purple mist that filled the valley, 
not hindering the view, but giving everything a 
strangely solemn aspect, and his face relaxed into 
something very like a smile as he said, “ It is the 
wark o’ my Father’s hand, and praised be his 
name. ’ ’ 

He stood at his own open door looking at these 
things, and inside his wife Mysie was laying the 
supper-board with haver bread and cheese and 


CARGILIv’S CONFESSION. 


243 


milk. A bright fire blamed on the wide hearth, 
and half a dozen sheep-dogs spread out their white 
breasts to the heat. Great settles of carved oak, 
bedded deep with fleeces of long wool, were on 
the sides of the fireplace, and from every wall 
racks of spotless deal, filled with crockery and 
pewter, reflected the shifting blaze. 

Suddenly he stepped out and looked anxiously 
towards the horizon on all sides. “Mysie, wo- 
man,” said he, “ there is a storm coming up from 
old Solway; I maun e’en gae and fauld the ewes 
wi’ their young lammies. Come awa’. Keeper 
and Sandy.” 

The dogs selected rose at once and followed 
Andrew with right good-will. Mysie watched 
them a moment; but the great clouds of mist roll- 
ing down from the mountains soon hid the stal- 
wart figure in its bonnet and plaid from view, and 
gave to the dogs’ fitful barks a distant, muffled 
sound. So she went in and sat down upon the 
settle, folding her hands listlessly on her lap, and 
letting the smile fall from her face as a mask 
might fall. Oh, what a sad face it was then ! 

She sat thus in a very trance of sorrow until 
the tears dropped heavily and slowly down, and 
her lips began to move in broken supplications. 
Evidently these brought her the comfort she 
sought, for erelong she rose, saying softly to her-r 


244 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


self, ‘ ‘ The lost bit o’ siller was found, and the 
strayed sheep was come up wi’, and the prodigal 
won hanie again, and dootless, dootless, my ain 
dear lad will no be lost sight o’ . ” 

By this time the storm had broken, but Mysie 
was not uneasy. Andrew knew the hills like his 
own ingle, and she could tell to within five min- 
utes how long it would take him to go to the 
fauld and back. But when it was ten minutes 
past his time Mysie stood anxiously in the open 
door and listened. Her ears, trained to almost 
supernatural quickness, soon detected above the 
winds and rain a sound of footsteps. She called 
a wise old sheep-dog and bid him listen. The 
creature held his head a moment to the ground, 
looked at her affirmatively, and at her command 
went to seek his master. 

In a few moments she heard Andrew’s pecu- 
liar “hallo!” and the joyful barking of the dog, 
and knew that all was right. Yet she could not 
go in; she felt that something unusual had hap- 
pened, and stood waiting for whatever was com- 
ing. It was a poor, little, half-drowned baby. 
Andrew took it from under his plaid, and laid it 
in her arms, saying, 

‘ ‘ I maun go now and look after the mither. 
I’ll need to yoke the cart for her; she’s past 
walking, and I’m sair feared she’s past living; 



rage 245. 











cargii^l’s confession. 245 

but you’ll save the bit bairn, Mysie, nae doot; 
for God disna smite aften wi’ baith hands. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Where is she, Andrew ?’ ’ 

“’Mang the Druids’ stanes, Mysie, and that’s 
an ill place for a Christian woman to die. God 
forbid it!” he muttered, as he lit a lantern and 
went rapidly to the stable; “ an evil place I under 
the vera altar-stane o’ Satan. God stay the 
parting soul till it can hear a word o’ his great 
mercy !’ ’ 

With such a motive to prompt him, Andrew 
was not long in reaching the ruins of the old Dru- 
idical temple. Under a raised flat stone, which 
made a kind of shelter, a woman was lying. She 
was now insensible, and Andrew lifted her care- 
fully into the cart. Perhaps it was some satisfac- 
tion to him that she did not actually die within 
such unhallowed precincts; but the poor creature 
herself was beyond such care. When she had 
seen her child in Mysie’ s arms, and comprehend- 
ed Mysie’ s assurance that she would care for it, 
all anxiety slipped away from her. Andrew 
strove hard to make her understand the awful 
situation in which she was; but the girl lay smi- 
ling, with upturned eyes, as if she was glad to be 
relieved of the burden of living. 

“You hae done your duty, gudeman,” at 
length said Mysie, “ and now you may leave the 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


246 

puir bit lassie to me; I’ll dootless find a word o’ 
comfort to say to her. ’ ’ 

“But I ’m feared, I am awfu’ feared, woman, 
that she is but a prodigal and an — ’ ’ 

“Hush, gudeman! There is mercy for the 
prodigal daughter as weel as for J:he prodigal 
son;” and at these words Andrew went out with 
a dark, stem face, while she turned with a new 
and stronger tenderness to the dying woman. 

“God is love,” she whispered; “if you hae 
done aught wrang, there’s the open grave o’ 
Jesus, dearie; just bury your wrang-doing there.” 
She was answered with a happy smile. “And 
your little lad is my lad fra this hour, dearie!” 
The dying lips parted, and Mysie knew they had 
spoken a blessing for her. 

Nothing was found upon the woman that 
could identify her, nothing except a cruel letter, 
which evidently came from the girl’s father; but 
even in this there was neither date nor locality 
named. It had no term of endearment to com- 
mence with, and was signed simply, “John Dun- 
bar.” Two things were, however, proven by it: 
that the woman’s given name was Bessie, and 
that by her marriage she had cut herself off from 
her home and her father’s affection. 

So she was laid by stranger hands within that 
doorless house in the which God sometimes 


CARGILL’S CONFESSION. 


247 


mercifully puts his weary ones to sleep. Mysie 
took the child to her heart at once, and Andrew 
was not long able to resist the little lad’s beauty 
and winning ways. The neighbors began to call 
him “wee Andrew;” and the old man grew to 
love his namesake with a strangely tender affec- 
tion. 

Sometimes there was indeed a bitter feeling in 
Mysie’ s heart, as she saw how gentle he was with 
this child and remembered how stern and strict 
he had been with their own lad. She did not un- 
derstand that the one was in reality the result of 
the other, the acknowledgement of his fault, and 
the touching effort to atone, in some way, for it. 

One night, when wee Andrew was about seven 
years old, this wrong struck her in a manner pe- 
culiarly painful. Andrew had made a most ex- 
traordinary journey, even as far as Penrith. A 
large manufactory had been begun there, and a 
sudden demand for his long staple of white wool 
had sprung up. Moreover, he had had a pros- 
perous journey, and brought back with him two 
books for the boy, ^sop’s Fables and Robinson 
Crusoe. 

When Mysie saw them, her heart swelled be- 
yond control. She remembered a day when her 
own son Davie had begged for these very books 
and been refused with hard rebukes. She re- 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


248 

membered the old man’s bitter words and the 
child’s bitter tears ; but she did not reflect that 
the present concession was the result of the for- 
mer refusal, nor yet that the books were much 
easier got and the money more plentiful than 
thirty years previous. When wee Andrew ran 
away with his treasures to the Druids’ stones, 
Mysie went into the shippen, and did her milk- 
ing to some very sad thoughts. 

She was poisoning her heart with her own 
tears. When she returned to “the ‘ ‘ houseplace ’ ’ 
and saw the child bending with rapt, earnest face 
over the books, she could not avoid murmuring 
that the son of a strange woman should be sitting 
happy in Cargill Spence, and her own dear lad a 
banished wanderer. She had come to a point 
when rebellion would be easy for her. Andrew 
saw a look on her face that amazed and troubled 
him: and yet when she sat so hopelessly down be- 
fore the fire, and without fear or apology 
“ Let the tears downfa’,” 

he had no heart to reprove her. Nay, he asked 
with a very unusual concern, “What’s the mat- 
ter, Mysie, woman?” 

“ I want to see Davie, and die, gudeman !” 

“You’ll no dare to speak o’ dying, wife, un- 
til the Lord gies you occasion; and Davie maun 
drink as he’s brewed.” 


CARGILL’S CONI^ESSION. 


249 


“ Nay, gudeman, but you brewed for him; the 
lad is drinking the cup you mixed wi’ your ain 
hands. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I did my duty by him. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He had ower muckle o’ your duty, and ower 
little o’ your indulgence. If Davie was wrang, 
ither folk werena right. Every fault has its fore- 
fault. ’ ’ 

Andrew looked in amazement at this woman, 
who for thirty and more years had never before 
dared to oppose his wishes, and to whom his word 
had been law. 

“Davie’s wrang-doing was weel kent, gude- 
wife ; he hasted to sin like a moth to a candle. ’ ’ 

“It’s weel that our faults arena written i’ our 
faces. ’ ’ 

“I hae fallen on evil days, Mysie; saxty years 
syne wives and bairns werena sae contrarie. ’ ’ 

“ There was gude and bad then, as now, gude- 
man. ’ ’ 

Mysie’ s face had a dour, determined look that 
no one had ever seen on it before. Andrew be- 
gan to feel irritated at her. “What do you want, 
woman?” he said sternly. 

“I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill.” 

“Your bairn is i’ some far-awa country, 
squandering his share o’ Paradise wi’ publicans 
and sinners.” 


32 


250 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“ I hope not, I hope not; if it werena for this 
hope my heart would break;” and then all the 
barriers that education and habit had built were 
suddenly overthrown as by an earthquake, and 
Mysie cried out passionately, ‘‘ I want my bairn, 
Andrew Cargill! the bonnie bairn that lay on my 
bosom, and was dandled on my knees, and sobbed 
out his sorrows i’ my arms. I want the bairn you 
were aye girding and grumbling at ! that got the 
rod for this, and the hard word and the black look 
for that ! My bonnie Davie, wha ne’er had a 
playtime nor a story-book 1 O gudeman, I want 
my bairn! I want my bairn!” 

The repressed passion and sorrow of ten long 
years had found an outlet and would not be con- 
trolled. Andrew laid down his pipe in amaze- 
ment and terror, and for a moment he feared his 
wife had lost her senses. He had a tender heart 
beneath his stern, grave manner, and his first im- 
pulse was just to take the sobbing mother to his 
breast and promise her all she asked. But he 
did not do it the first moment, and he could not 
the second. Yet he did rise and go to her, and in 
his awkward way try to comfort her. “ Dinna 
greet that way, Mysie, woman,” he said; “if I 
hae done amiss, I ’ll mak amends.” 

That was a great thing for Andrew Cargill to 
say; Mysie hardly knew how to believe it. Such 


CARGILI^’S CONFESSION. 25 1 

a confession was a kind of miracle, for she judged 
things by results and was not given to any con- 
sideration of the events that led up to them. She 
could not know, and did not suspect, that all the 
bitter truths she had spoken had been gradually 
forcing themselves on her husband’s mind. She 
did not know that wee Andrew’s happy face over 
his story-books, and his eager claim for sympathy, 
had been an accusation and a reproach which the 
old man had already humbly and sorrowfully ac- 
cepted. Therefore his confession and his promise 
were a wonder to the woman, who had never be- 
fore dared to admit that it was possible Andrew 
Cargill should do wrong in his own household. 


252 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER II. 

The confidence that came after this plain 
speaking was very sweet and comforting to both, 
although in their isolation and ignorance they 
knew not what steps to take in order to find Da- 
vie. Ten years had elapsed since he had hung 
for one heart-breaking moment on his mother’s 
neck, and bid, as he- told her, a farewell for ever 
to the miserable scenes of his hard, bare child- 
hood. Mysie had not been able to make herself 
believe that he was very wrong; dancing at pretty 
Mary Halliday’s bridal and singing two or three 
love-songs did not seem to the fond mother such 
awful transgressions as the stern, strict Covenant- 
er really believed them to be, though even Mysie 
was willing to allow that Davie, in being be- 
guiled into such sinful folly, “had made a sair 
tumble. ’ ’ 

However, Davie and his father had both said 
things that neither could win over, and the lad 
had gone proudly down the hill with but a few 
shillings in his pocket. Since* then there had 
been ten years of anxious, longing grief that had 
remained unconfessed until this night. Now the 
hearts of both yearned for their lost son. But 


CARGILIv’S CONFESSION. 


253 


Ilow should they find him ? Andrew read noth- 
ing but his Bible and almanac; he had no con- 
ception of the world beyond Kendal and Keswick. 
He could scarcely imagine David going beyond 
these places, or, at any rate, the coast of Scotland. 
Should he make a pilgrimage round about all 
those parts ? 

Mysie shook her head. She thought Andrew 
had better go to Keswick and see the Methodist 
preacher there. She had heard they travelled 
all over the world, and if so, it was more than 
likely they had seen Davie Cargill; “at ony rate, 
he would gie advice worth speiring after. ’ ’ 

Andrew had but a light opinion of Methodists, 
and had never been inside the little chapel at 
Sinverness; but Mysie’ s advice, he allowed, “had 
a savor o’ sense in it, ’ ’ and so the next day he 
rode over to Keswick and opened his heart to 
John Sugden, the superintendent of the Derwent 
Circuit. He had assured himself on the road that 
he would only tell John just as much as was ne- 
cessary for his quest; but he was quite unable to 
resist the preacher’s hearty sympathy. There 
never were two men more unlike than Andrew 
Cargill and John Sugden, and yet they loved 
each other at once. 

‘ ‘ He is a son o’ consolation, and dootless ane o’ 
God’s chosen,” said Andrew to Mysie on his return. 


254 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“ He is a far nobler old fellow than he thinks 
he is,” said John to his wife when he told her of 
Andrew’s visit. 

John had advised advertising for Davie in 
“The Watchman;” for John really thought this 
organ of the Methodist creed was the greatest 
paper in existence, and honestly believed that if 
Davie was anywhere in the civilized world ‘ ‘ The 
Watchman” would find him out. He was so 
sure of it that both Mysie and Andrew caught his 
hopeful tone, and began to tell each other what 
should be done when Davie came home. 

Poor Mysie was now doubly kind to wee An- 
drew. She accused herself bitterly of ‘ ‘ grudging 
the bit lammie his story-books,” and persuaded 
her husband to bring back from Keswick for the 
child the “ Pilgrim’s Progress ” and “The Young 
Christian.” John Sugden, too, visited them 
often, not only staying at Cargill during his regu- 
lar appointments, but often riding over to take a 
day’s recreation with the old Cameronian. True, 
they disputed the whole time. John said very 
positive things and Andrew very contemptuous 
ones; but as they each kept their own opinions 
intact, and were quite sure of their grounds for^ 
doing so, no words that were uttered ever slack- 
ened the grip of their hands at parting. 

One day, as John was on the way to Cargill 


cargii^l’s concession. 


255 


he perceived a man sitting among the Druids’ 
stones. The stranger was a pleasant fellow, and 
after a few words with the preacher he proposed 
that they should ride to Sinverness together. John 
soon got to talking of Andrew and his lost son, 
and the stranger became greatly interested. He 
said he should like to go up to Andrew’s and 
get a description of Davie, adding that he trav- 
elled far and wide, and might happen to come 
across him. 

The old man met them at the door. 

“ My sight fails, John,” he said, ‘‘but I ’d hae 
kent your step i’ a thousand. You too are wel- 
come, sir, though I ken you not, and doubly wel- 
come if you bring God’s blessing wi’ you.” 

The stranger lifted his hat, and Andrew led 
the way into the house. John had been expected, 
for haver bread and potted shrimps were on the 
table, and he helped himself without ceremony, 
taking up at the same time their last argument 
just where he had dropped it at the gate of the 
lower croft. But it had a singular interruption. 
The sheep-dogs who had been quietly sleeping 
under the settle began to be strangely uneasy. 
Keeper could scarcely be kept down, even by An- 
drew’s command, and Sandy bounded towards the 
stranger with low, rapid barks that made John 
lose the sense of the argument in a new thought. 


256 SCOTTISH sketches. 

But before lie could frame it into words Mysie 
came in. 

“See here, John/’ she cried, and then slie 
stopped and looked with wide-open eyes at the 
man coming towards her. With one long, thrill- 
ing cry she threw herself into his arms. 

‘ ‘ Mother ! mother ! darling mother, forgive 
me!” 

John had instantly gone to Andrew’s side, but 
Andrew had risen at once to the occasion. “I’m 
no a woman to skirl or swoon, ’ ’ he said, almost 
petulantly, “and it’s right and fit the lad should 
gie his mither the first greeting. ’ ’ 

But he stretched out both hands, and his 
cheeks were flushed and his eyes full when Davie 
flung himself on his knees beside him. 

“ My lad 1 my ain dear lad I” he cried, “ I ’ll 
see nae better day than this until I see His face. ’ ’ 

No one can tell the joy of that hour. The 
cheese curds were left in the dairy and the wool 
was left at the wheel, and Mysie forget her house- 
hold, and Andrew forgot his argument, and the 
preacher at last said, 

“You shall tell us, Davie, what the Dord has 
done for you since you left your father's house.” 

‘ ‘ He has been gude to me, vera gude. I had 
a broad Scot’s tongue in my head, and I deter- 
mined to go northward. I had little siller and I 


CARGILI<’S CONFESSION. 


257 


had to walk, and by the time I reached Ecclefech- 
an I had reason enough to be sorry for the step I 
had taken. As I was sitting by the fireside o’ the 
little inn there a man came in who said he was 
going to Carlisle to hire a shepherd. I did not 
like the man, but I was tired and had not plack 
nor bawbee, so I e’en asked him for the place. 
When he heard I was Cumberland born, and had 
been among sheep all my life, he was fain enough, 
and we soon ’greed about the fee. 

‘ ‘ He was a harder master than Eaban, but he 
had a daughter who was as bonnie as Rachel, and 
I loved the lass wi’ my whole soul, and she loved 
me. I ne’er thought about being her father’s 
hired man. I was aye Davie Cargill to mysel’, 
and I had soon enough told Bessie all about my 
father and mither and hame. I spoke to her 
father at last, but he wouldna listen to me. He 
just ordered me off his place, and Bessie went wi’ 
me. 

‘‘I know now that we did wrang, but we 
thought then that we were right. We had a few 
pounds between us and we gaed to Carlisle. But 
naething went as it should hae done. I could get 
nae wark, and Bessie fell into vera bad health ; 
but she had a brave spirit, and she begged me to 
leave her in Carlisle and go my lane to Glasgow. 
‘ For when wark an’ siller arena i’ one place, Da- 
33 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


258 

vie,’ she said, ‘then they’re safe to be in an- 
other. ’ 

“I swithered lang about leaving her, but a 
good opportunity came, and Bessie promised me 
to go back to her father until I could come after 
her. It was July then, and when Christmas came 
round I had saved money enough, and I started 
wi’ a blithe heart to Ecclefechan. I hadna any 
fear o’ harm to my bonnie bit wifie, for she had 
promised to go to her hame, and I was sure she 
would be mair than welcome when she went with- 
out me. I didna expect any letters, because Bes- 
sie couldna write, and, indeed, I was poor enough 
wi’ my pen at that time, and only wrote once to 
tell her I had good wark and would be for her at 
New Year. 

“But when I went I found that Bessie had 
gane, and none knew where. I traced her to 
Keswick poor-house, where she had a little lad; 
the matron said she went away in a very weak 
condition when the child was three weeks old, 
declaring that she was going to her friends. Puir, 
bonnie, loving Bessie; that was the last I ever 
heard o’ my wife and bairn. ’ ’ 

Mysie had left the room, and as she returned 
wdth a little bundle Andrew was anxiously ask- 
ing, “What was the lassie’s maiden name, Da- 
vie?” 


CARGILL’S CONFESSION. 


259 


Bessie Dunbar, father.” 

Then this is a wun’erful day; we are blessed 
and twice blessed, for I found your wife and bairn, 
Davie, just where John Sugden found you, ’mang 
the Druids’ stanes; and the lad has my ain honest 
name and is weel worthy o’ it. ’ ’ 

“See here, Davie,” and Mysie tenderly 
touched the poor faded dress and shawl, and laid 
the wedding-ring in his palm. As she spoke wee 
Andrew came across the yard, walking slowly, 
reading as he walked. “Look at him, Davie! 
He’s a bonnie lad, and a glide ane; and oh, my 
ain dear lad, he has had a’ things that thy youth 
wanted.” 

It pleased the old man no little that, in spite 
of his father’s loving greeting, wee Andrew stole 
away to his side. 

“You see, Davie,” he urged in apology, 
“ he ’s mair at hame like wi’ me.” 

And then he drew the child to him, and let 
his whole heart go out now, without check or 
reproach, to “ Davie’s bairn.” 

‘ ‘ But you have not finished your story, Mr. 
Cargill,” said John, and David sighed as he an- 
swered, 

“There is naething by the ordinar in it. I 
went back to the warks I had got a footing in, the 
Glencart Iron Warks, and gradually won my way 


26 o 


SCOTTISH ske:tches. 


to the topmost rungs o’ the ladder. I am head 
buyer now, hae a gude share i’ the concern, and 
i’ money matters there’s plenty folk waur off 
than David Cargill. When I put my father’s 
forgiveness, my mither’s love, and my Bessie’s 
bonnie lad to the lave, I may weel say that ‘ they 
are weel guided that God guides. ’ A week ago 
I went into the editor’s room o’ the ‘Glasgow 
Herald,’ and the man no being in I lifted a paper 
and saw in it my father’s message to me. It’s 
sma’ credit that I left a’ and answered it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What paper, Mr. Cargill, what paper ?’ ’ 
“They ca’ it ‘The Watchman.’ I hae it in 
my pocket. ’ ’ 

“I thought so,” said John triumphantly. 
“It’s a grand paper; every one ought to have 
it.” 

“It is welcome evermore in my house,” said 
Davie. 

“It means weel, it means weel,” said An- 
drew, with a great stretch of charity, ‘ ‘ but I din- 
na approve o’ its doctrines at a’, and — ” 

“It found David for you, Andrew.” 

“Ay, ay, God uses a’ kinds o’ instruments. 
‘The Watchman’ isna as auld as the Bible yet, 
John, and it’s ill praising green barley.” 

“Now, Andrew, I think — ” 

“Tut, tut, John, I ’se no sit i’ Rome and 


CARGII.I.’S CONFESSION. 261 

strive wi’ the pope; there’s naething ill said, you 
ken, if it’s no ill taken.” 

John smiled tolerantly, and indeed there was 
no longer time for further discussion, for the shep- 
herds from the hills and the farmers from the glen 
had heard of David’s return, and were hurrying 
to Cargill to see him. ^ Mysie saw that there 
would be a goodly company, and the long har- 
vest-table was brought in and a feast of thanks- 
giving spread. Conversation in that house could 
only set one way, and after all had eaten and 
David had told his story again, one old man 
after another spoke of the dangers they had en- 
countered and the spiritual foes they had con- 
quered. 

Whether it was the speaking, or the sympathy 
of numbers, or some special influence of the Holy 
Ghost, I know not; but suddenly Andrew lifted 
his noble old head and spoke thus: 

“Frien’s, ye hae some o’ you said ill things 
o’ yoursel’s, but to the sons o’ God there is nae 
condemnation; not that I hae been althegither 
faultless, but I meant weel, an’ the lad was a 
wilfu’ lad, and ye ken what the wisest o’ men 
said anent such. Just and right has been my 
walk before you, but — still — ” Then, with a 
sudden passion, and rising to his feet, he cried 
out, “Frien’s, I’m a poor sinfu’ man, but I’ll 


262 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

play no mair pliskies wi’ my conscience. I liae 
dootless been a hard master, hard and stern, and 
loving Sinai far beyond Bethlehem. Hard was I 
to my lad, and hard hae I been to the wife o’ my 
bosom, and hard hae I been to my ain heart. It 
has been my ain will and my ain way all my life 
lang. God forgie me ! God forgie me ! for this 
night he has brought my sins to my remem- 
brance. I hae been your elder for mair than 
forty years, but I hae ne’er been worthy to carry 
his holy vessels. I’ll e’en sit i’ the lowest seat 
henceforward.” 

“Not so,” said John. And there was such 
eager praise, and such warm love rose from every 
mouth, that words began to fail, and as the old 
man sat down smiling, happier than he had ever 
been before, song took up the burden speech laid 
down; fot John started one of those old triumph- 
ant Methodist hymns, and the rafters shook to the 
melody, and the stars heard it, and the angels in 
heaven knew a deeper joy. Singing, the com- 
pany departed, and Andrew, standing in the 
moonlight between David and John, watched the 
groups scatter hither and thither, and heard, far 
up the hills and down the glen, that sweet, sweet 
refrain, 

“ Canaan, bright Canaan ! 

Will you go to the land of Canaan ?” 


cargii^l’s confession. 263 

After this David stayed a week at Glenmora, 
and then it became necessary for him to return to 
Glasgow. But wee Andrew was to have a tutor 
and remain with his grandparents for some years 
at least. Andrew himself determined to ‘ ‘ tak a 
trip’’ and see Scotland and the wonderful iron 
works of which he was never weary of hearing 
David talk. 

When he reached Kendal, however, and saw 
for the first time the Caledonian Railway and its 
locomotives, nothing could induce him to go far- 
ther. 

‘‘It’s ower like the deil and the place he 
bides in, Davie,” he said, with a kind of horror. 
“ Fire and smoke and iron bands ! I ’ll no ride 
at the deil’s tail-end, not e’en to see the land o’ 
the Covenant.” 

So he went back to Glenmora, and was well 
content when he stood again at his own door and 
looked over the bonny braes of S Inverness, its 
simmering becks and fruitful vales. “These 
are the warks o’ His hands, Mysie,” he said, rev- 
erently lifting his bonnet and looking up to 
Creffel and away to Solway, “and you’d ken 
that, woman, if you had seen Satan as I saw 
him rampaging roun’ far waur than any roaring 
lion.” 

After this Andrew never left Sinverness; but. 


264 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

the past -unsighed for and the future sure, passed 
through 

“ an old age serene and bright, 

And lovely as a Lapland night,” 

until, one summer evening, he gently fell on that 
sleep which God giveth his beloved. 

“ For such Death’s portal opens not in gloom, 

But its pure crystal, hinged on solid gold, 

Shows avenues interminable — shows 
Amaranth and palm quivering in sweet accord 
Of human mingled with angelic song.” 







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ONE WRONG STER 


CHAPTER I. 

“ TnKR^i’S few folk ken Ragon Torr as I do, 
mother. He is better at heart than thou wad 
think; indeed he is !” 

“ If better were within, better wad come out, 
John. He ’s been drunk or dovering i’ the chim- 
ney-corner these past three weeks. Hech ! but 
he’d do weel i’ Fool’s Land, where they get half 
a crown a day for sleeping. ’ ’ 

“There’s nane can hunt a seal or spear a 
whale like Ragon; thou saw him theesel’, mo- 
ther, among the last school i’ Stromness Bay.” 

“I saw a raving, ranting heathen, wi’ the 
bonnie blue bay a sea o’ blood around him, an’ 
he shouting an’ slaying like an old pagan, sea- 
king. Decent, God-fearing fisher-folk do their 
needful wark ither gate than yon. Now there is 
but one thing for thee to do: thou must break wi’ 
Ragon Torr, an’ that quick an’ soon. ’ ’ 

“Know this, my mother, a friend is to be 
taken wi’ his faults.” 


268 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“Thou knows this, John: I hae forty years 
mair than thou hast, an’ years ken mair than 
books. An’ wi’ a’ thy book skill hast thou ne’er 
read that ‘Evil communications corrupt gude 
manners’? Mak up thy mind that I shall tak it 
vera ill if thou sail again this year wi’ that bom 
heathen;” and, with these words Dame Alison 
Sabay rose up from the stone bench at her cot- 
tage door and went dourly into the houseplace. 

John stood on the little jetty which ran from 
the very doorstep into the bay, and looked 
thoughtfully over towards the sweet green isle of 
Graemsay; but neither the beauty of land or sea, 
nor the splendor of skies bright with the rosy ban- 
ners of the Aurora gave him any answer to the 
thoughts which troubled him. “ I ’ll hae to talk 
it o’er wi’ Christine,” he said decidedly, and he 
also turned into the house. 

Christine was ten years older than her brother 
John. She had known much sorrow, but she had 
lived through and lived down all her trials and 
come out into the peace on the other side. She 
was sitting by the peat fire knitting, and softly 
crooning an old Scotch psalm to the click of her 
needles. She answered John’s look with a sweet, 
grave smile, and a slight nod towards the little 
round table, upon which there was a plate of 
smoked goose and some oaten cake for his supper. 


one: wrong step. 269 

“I catena to eat a bite, Christine; this is 
what I want o’ thee: the skiff is under the win- 
dow; step into it, an’ do thou go on the bay wi’ 
me an hour. ’ ’ 

“ I havena any mind to go, John. It is nine 
by the clock, an’ to-morrow the peat is to coil an’ 
the herring to kipper; yes, indeed.” 

‘‘Well an’ good. But here is matter o’ mair 
account than peat an’ herring. Wilt thou 
come?” 

“At the end I ken weel thou wilt hae thy 
way. Mother, here is John, an’ he is for my 
going on the bay wi’ him.” 

“Then thou go. If John kept aye as gude 
company he wouldna be like to bring my gray 
hairs wi’ sorrow to the grave. ’ ’ 

John did not answer this remark until they 
had pushed well off from the sleeping town, then 
he replied fretfully, “Yes, what mother says is 
true enough ; but a man goes into the warld. A’ 
the fingers are not alike, much less one’s friends. 
How can a’ be gude ?’ ’ 

“To speak from the heart, John, wha is it?” 

“Ragon Torr. Thou knows we hae sat i’ 
the same boat an’ drawn the same nets for three 
years; he is gude an’ bad, like ither folk.” 

“Keep gude company, my brother, an’ thou 
wilt aye be counted ane o’ them. When Ragon 


270 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


is gude he is ower gude, and when he is bad he 
is just beyont kenning.” 

‘ ‘ Can a man help the kin he comes o’ ? Have 
not his forbears done for centuries the vera same 
way? Naething takes a Norseman frae his bed 
or his cup but some great deed o’ danger or profit; 
but then wha can fight or wark like them ?’ ’ 

“ Christ doesna ask a man whether he be 
Norse or Scot. If Ragon went mair to the kirk 
an’ less to the change-house, he wouldna need to 
differ. Were not our ain folk cattle-lifting Hie- 
land thieves lang after the days o’ the Cove- 
nant ?’ ’ 

“Christine, ye’ll speak nae wrang o’ the 
Sabays. It ’s an ill bird ’files its ain nest.” 

“Weel, weel, John! The gude name o’ the 
Sabays is i’ thy hands now. But to speak from 
the heart, this thing touches thee nearer than 
Ragon Torr. Thou did not bring me out to 
speak only o’ him. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thou art a wise woman, Christine, an’ thou 
art right. It touches Margaret Fae, an’ when 
it does that, it touches what is dearer to me than 
life.” 

‘ ‘ I see it not. ’ ’ 

“Do not Ragon an’ I sail i’ Peter Fae’s boats? 
Do we not eat at his table, an’ bide round his 
house during the whole fishing season? If I 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


271 


sail no more wi’ Ragon, I must quit Peter’s 
employ ; for he loves Ragon as he loves no ither 
lad i’ Stromness or Kirkwall. The Norse blood 
we think little o’, Peter glories in; an’ the twa 
men count thegither o’er their glasses the races 
o’ the Vikings, an’ their ain generations up to 
Snorro an’ Thorso. ’ ’ 

“Is there no ither master but Peter Fae? ask 
theesel’ that question, John.” 

* ‘ I hae done that, Christine. Plenty o’ mas- 
ters, but nane o’ them hae Margaret for a daugh- 
ter. Christine, I love Margaret, an’ she loves 
me week Thou hast loved theesel’ , my sister. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I ken that, John, ’ ’ she said tenderly ; “I hae 
loved, therefore I hae got beyont doots, an’ 
learned something holier than my ain way. Thou 
trust Margaret now. Thou say ‘Yes’ to thy 
mother, an’ fear not. ’ ’ 

“Christine thou speaks hard words.” 

‘ ‘ Was it to speak easy anes thou brought me 
here? An’ if I said, ‘I counsel thee to tak 
thy ain will i’ the matter,’ wad my counsel mak 
bad gude, or wrang right? Paul Calder’s fleet 
sails i’ twa days; seek a place i’ his boats.” 

‘ ‘ Then I shall see next to naught o’ Margaret, 
an’ Ragon will see her every day. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ If Margaret loves thee, that can do thee nae 
harm. ’ ’ 


272 SCOTTISH SKE:TCHES. 

“But her father favors Ragon, an’ of n 2 he 
thinks nae mair than o’ the nets, or aught else 
that finds his boats for sea.” 

“Well an’ good; but no talking can alter 
facts. Thou must now choose atween thy mo- 
ther an’ Margaret Fae, atween right an’ wrang. 
God doesna leave that choice i’ the dark; thy 
way may be narrow an’ unpleasant, but it is 
clear enough. Dost thou fear to walk i’ it?” 

“There hae been words mair than plenty, 
Christine. Tet us go hame.” 

Silently the little boat drifted across the 
smooth bay, and silently the brother and sister 
stood a moment looking up the empty, flagged 
street of the sleeping town. The strange light, 
which was neither gloaming nor dawning, but a 
mixture of both, the waving boreal banners, the 
queer houses, gray with the storms of centuries, 
the brown undulating heaths, and the phosphor- 
escent sea, made a strangely solemn picture which 
sank deep into their hearts. After a pause, 
Christine went into the house, but John sat down 
on the stone bench to think over the alternatives 
before him. 

Now the power of training up a child in the 
way it should go asserted itself. It became at 
once a fortification against self-will. John never 
had positively disobeyed his mother’s explicit 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


273 

com-i lands; he found it impossible to do so. He 
must offer his services to Paul Calder in the 
morning, and try to trust Margaret Fae’s love for 
him. 

He had determined now to do right, but he 
did not do it very pleasantly — it is a rare soul 
that grows sweeter in disappointments. Both 
mother and sister knew from John’s stern, silent 
ways that he had chosen the path of duty, and 
they expected that he would make it a valley of 
Baca. This Dame Alison accepted as in some 
sort her desert. “I ought to hae forbid the lad 
three years syne,” she said regretfully; “aft ill 
an’ sorrow come o’ sich sinfu’ putting aff. There’s 
nae half-way house atween right an’ wrang.” 

Certainly the determination involved some 
unpleasant explanations to John. He must first 
see old Peter Fae and withdraw himself from his 
service. He found him busy in loading a small 
vessel with smoked geese and kippered fish, and 
he was apparently in a very great passion. Be- 
fore John could mention his own matters, Peter 
burst into a torrent of invectives against another 
of his sailors, who, he said, had given some infor- 
mation to the Excise which had cost him a whole 
cargo of Dutch specialties. The culprit was 
leaning against a hogshead, and was listening to 
Peter’s intemperate words with a very evil smile. 

35 


274 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


“How mucli did ye sell yourseP for, Sandy 
Beg? It took the son of a Hieland robber like 
you to tell tales of a honest man’s cargo. It was 
an ill day when the Scots cam to Orkney, I 
trow. ’ ’ 

“She’ll hae petter right to say tat same ’fore 
lang time.” And Sandy’s face was dark with 
a subdued passion that. Peter might have known 
to be dangerous, but which he continued to ag- 
gravate by contemptuous expressions regarding 
Scotchmen in general. 

This John Sabay was in no mood to bear; he 
very soon took offence at Peter’s sweeping abuse, 
and said he would relieve him at any rate of one 
Scot. “He didna care to sail again wi’ such a 
crowd as Peter gathered round him.” 

It was a very unadvised speech. Ragon lifted 
it at once, and in the words which followed John 
unavoidably found himself associated with Sandy 
Beg, a man whose character was of the lowest 
order. And he had meant to be so temperate, 
and to part with both Peter and Ragon on the 
best terms possible. How weak are all our reso- 
lutions ! John turned away from Peter’s store 
conscious that he had given full sway to all the 
irritation and disappointment of his feelings, and 
that he had spoken as violently as either Peter, 
Ragon, or even the half-brutal Sandy Beg. In- 


one: wrong step. 


275 


deed, Sandy had said very little; but the malig- 
nant look with which he regarded Peter, John 
could never forget. 

This was not his only annoyance. Paul Cal- 
der’s boats were fully manned, and the others had 
already left for Brassey’s Sound. The Sabays 
were not rich; a few weeks of idleness would 
make the long Orkney winter a dreary prospect. 
Christine and his mother sat from morning to 
night braiding straw into the once famous Ork- 
ney Tuscans, and he went to the peat-moss to 
cut a good stock of winter fuel; but his earnings 
in money were small and precarious, and he was 
so anxious that Christine’s constant cheerfulness 
hurt him. 

Sandy Beg had indeed said something of an 
oiBfer he could make ‘ ‘ if shentlemans wanted goot 
wages wi’ ta chance of a lucky bit for themsel’s; 
foive kuineas ta month an’ ta affsets. Oigh ! 
oigh!” But John had met the offer with such 
scorn and anger that Sandy had thought it worth 
while to bestow one of his most wicked looks 
upon him. The fact was, Sandy felt half grate- 
ful to John for his apparent partisanship, and 
John indignantly resented any disposition to put 
him in the same boat with a man so generally 
suspected and disliked. 

“It might be a come-down,” he said, “for a 


276 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


gude sailor an’ fisher to coil peats and do days’ 
darg, but it was honest labor; an’, please God, 
he’d never do that i’ the week that wad hinder 
him fra going to the kirk on Sabbath.” 

“Oigh! she’ll jist please hersel’; she’ll pe 
owing ta Beg naething by ta next new moon.” 
And with a mocking laugh Sandy loitered away 
towards the seashore. 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


277 


CHAPTER II. 

Just after this interview a little lad put a note 
in John’s hand from Margaret Fae. It only asked 
him to be on Brogar Bridge at eight o’clock that 
night. Now Brogar Bridge was not a spot that 
any Orcadian cared to visit at such an hour. In 
the pagan temple whose remains stood there it 
was said pale ghosts of white-robed priests still 
offered up shadowy human sacrifices, and though 
John’s faith was firm and sure, superstitions are 
beyond reasoning with, and he recalled the eerie, 
weird aspect of the grim stones with an unavoid- 
able apprehension. What could Margaret want 
with him in such a place and at an hour so near 
that at which Peter usually went home from his 
shop? He had never seen Margaret’s writing, 
and he half suspected Sandy Beg had more to do 
with the appointment than she had; but he was 
too anxious to justify himself in Margaret’s eyes 
to let any fears or doubts prevent him from keep- 
ing the tryst. 

He had scarcely reached the Stones of Sten- 
nis when he saw her leaning against one of them. 
The strange western light was over her thought- 
ful face. She seemed to have become a part of 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


278 

the still and solemn landscape. John had always 
loved her with a species of reverence; to-night he 
felt almost afraid of her beauty and the power she 
had over him. She was a true Scandinavian, 
with the tall, slender, and rather haughty form 
which marks Orcadian and Zetland women. Her 
hair was perhaps a little too fair and cold, and 
yet it made a noble setting to the large, finely- 
featured, tranquil face. 

She put out her hand as John approached, and 
said, “Was it well that thou shouldst quarrel with 
my father? I thought that thou didst love me.” 

Then John poured out his whole heart — his 
love for her, his mother’s demand of him, his 
quarrel with Ragon and Peter and Sandy Beg. 
“It has been an ill time, Margaret,” he said, 
“ and thou hast been long in comforting me.” 

Well, Margaret had plenty of reasons for her 
delay and plenty of comfort for her lover. Natu- 
rally slow of pulse and speech, she had been long 
coming to a conclusion ; but, having satisfied her- 
self of its justice, she was likely to be immovable 
in it. She gave John her hand frankly and lov- 
ingly, and promised, in poverty or wealth, in 
weal or woe, to stand truly by his side. It was 
not a very hopeful troth-plighting, but they were 
both sure of the foundations of their love, and 
both regarded the promise as solemnly binding. 


ON^ WRONG STEP. 


279 


Then Margaret told John that she had heard 
that evening that the captain of the Wick steam- 
er wanted a mate, and the rough Pentland Frith 
being well known to John, she hoped, if he made 
immediate application, he would be accepted. If 
he was, John declared his intention of at once 
seeing Peter and asking his consent to their en- 
gagement. In the meantime the Bridge of Bro- 
gar was to be their tryst, when tryst was possible. 
Peter’s summer dwelling lay not far from it, and 
it was Margaret’s habit to watch for his boat and 
walk up from the beach to the house with him. 
She would always walk over first to Brogar, and 
if John could meet her there that would be well ; 
if not, she would understand that it was out of the 
way of duty, and be content. 

John fortunately secured the mate’s place. 
Before he could tell Margaret this she heard her 
father speak well of him to the captain. “There 
is nae better sailol*, nor better lad, for that mat- 
ter, ’ ’ said Peter. ‘ ‘ I like none that he wad hang 
roun’ my bonnie Marg’et; but then, a cat may 
look at a king without it being high treason, I 
wot.” 

A week afterwards Peter thought differently. 
When John told him honestly how matters stood 
between him and Margaret he was more angry 
than when Sandy Beg swore away his whole 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


2 So 

Dutch cargo. He would listen to neither love 
nor reason, and positively forbid him to hold any 
further intercourse with his daughter. John had 
expected this, and was not greatly discouraged. 
He had Margaret’s promise. Youth is hopeful, 
and they could wait ; for it never entered their 
minds absolutely to disobey the old man. 

In the meantime there was a kind of peace- 
making between Ragon and John. The good 
Dominie Sinclair had met them both one day on 
the beach, and insisted on their forgiving and 
shaking hands. Neither of them were sorry to do 
so. Men who have shared the dangers of the 
deep-sea fishing and the stormy Northern Ocean 
together cannot look upon each other as mere 
parts of a bargain. There was, too, a wild valor 
and a wonderful power in emergencies belonging 
to Ragon that had always da^^led John’s more 
cautious nature. In some respects, he thought 
Ragon Torr the greatest sailor that left Stromness 
harbor, and Ragon was willing enough to admit 
that John “was a fine fellow,” and to give his 
hand at the dominie’s direction. 

Alas ! the good man’s peacemaking was of 
short duration. As soon as Peter told the young 
Norse sailor of John’s offer for Margaret’s hand, 
Ragon’s passive good-will turned to active dislike 
and bitter jealousy. For, though he had taken 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


281 


little trouble to please Margaret, be bad come to 
look upon ber as bis future wife. He knew that 
Peter wished it so, and be now imagined that it 
was also the only thing on earth he cared for. 

Thus, though John was getting good wages, 
he was not happy. It was rarely he got a word 
with Margaret, and Peter and Ragon were only, 
too ready to speak. It became daily more and 
more difficult to avoid an open quarrel with them, 
and, indeed, on several occasions sharp, cruel 
words, that hurt like wounds, had passed between 
them on the public streets and quays. 

Thus Stromness, that used to be so pleasant to 
him, was changing fast. He knew not how it 
was that people so readily believed him in the 
wrong. In Wick, too, he had been troubled with 
Sandy Beg, and a kind of nameless dread pos- 
sessed him about the man ; he could not get rid of 
it, even after he had heard that Sandy had sailed 
in a whaling ship for the Arctic seas. 

Thus things went on until the end of July. 
John was engaged now until the steamer stopped 
running in September, and the little sum of ready 
money necessary for the winter’s comfort was as- 
sured. Christine sat singing and knitting, or 
singing and braiding straw, and Dame Alison 
went up and down her cottage with a glad heart. 
They knew little of John’s anxieties. Christine 

36 


282 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


had listened sympathi^ingly to his trouble about 
Margaret, and said, “Thou wait an’ trust, John 
dear, an’ at the end a’ things will be well. ’ ’ Even 
Ragon’s ill-will and Peter’s ill words had not 
greatly frightened them — “The wrath o’ man 
shall praise Him,” read did Alison, with just a 
touch of spiritual satisfaction, ‘ ‘ an’ the rest o’ the 
wrath he will restrain. ’ ’ 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


283 


CHAPTER II. 

It was a Saturday night in the beginning of 
August, and John was at home until the follow- 
ing Monday. He dressed himself and went out 
towards Brogar, and Christine watched him far 
over the western moor, and blessed him as he 
went. He had not seen Margaret for many days, 
but he had a feeling to-night that she would be 
able to keep her tryst. And there, standing amid 
the rushes on the lakeside, he found her. They 
had so much to say to each other that Margaret 
forgot her father’s return, and delayed so long 
that she thought it best to go straight home, in- 
stead of walking down the beach to meet him. 

He generally left Stromness about half-past 
eight, and his supper was laid for nine o’clock. 
But this night nine passed, and he did not come; 
and though the delay could be accounted for in 
various ways, she had a dim but anxious forecast- 
ing of calamity in her heart. The atmosphere 
of the little parlor grew sorrowful and heavy, the 
lamp did not seem to light it, her father’s chair 
had a deserted, lonely aspect, the house was 
strangely silent; in fifteen minutes she had for- 
gotten how happy she had been, and wandered to 


284 SCOTTISH sketches. 

and from the door like some soul in an uneasy 
dream. 

All at once she heard the far-away shouting 
of angry and alarmed voices, and to her sensitive 
ears her lover’s and her father’s names were min- 
gled. It was her nature to act slowly; for a few 
moments she could not decide what was to be 
done. The first thought was the servants. There 
were only two, Hacon Flett and Gerda Vedder. 
Gerda had gone to bed, Hacon was not on the 
place. As she gathered her energies together she 
began to walk rapidly over the springy heath 
towards the white sands of the beach. Her 
father, if he was coming, would come that way. 
She was angry with herself for the if. Of course 
he was coming. What was there to prevent it ? 
She told herself. Nothing, and the next moment 
looked up and saw two men coming towards her, 
and in their arms a figure which she knew in- 
stinctively was her father’s. 

She slowly retraced her steps, set open the 
gate and the door, and waited for the grief that 
was coming to her. But however slow her rea- 
soning faculties, her soul knew in a moment what 
it needed. It was but a little prayer said with 
trembling lips and fainting heart; but no prayer 
loses its way. Straight to the heart of Christ it 
went. And the answer was there and the strength 


one; wrong step. 285 

waiting when Ragon and Hacon brought in the 
bleeding, dying old man, and laid him down upon 
his parlor floor. 

Ragon said but one word, “Stabbed!” and 
then, turning to Hacon, bid him ride for life and 
death into Stromness for a doctor. Most sailors 
of these islands know a little rude surgery, and 
Ragon stayed beside his friend, doing what he 
could to relieve the worst symptoms. Margaret, 
white and still, went hither and thither, bringing 
whatever Ragon wanted, and fearing, she knew 
not why, to ask any questions. 

With the doctor came the dominie and two of 
the town bailies. There was little need of the 
doctor; Peter Fae’s life was ebbing rapidly away. 
with every moment of time. There was but lit- 
tle time now for whatever had yet to be done. 
The dominie stooped first to his ear, and in a few 
solemn words bid him lay himself at the foot of 
the cross. “Thou ’It never perish there, Peter,” 
he said ; and the dying man seemed to catch 
something of the comfort of such an assurance. 

Then Bailie Inkster said, “Peter Fae, before 
God an’ his minister — before twa o’ the town bai- 
lies an’ thy ain daughter Margaret, an’ thy friend 
Ragon Torr, an’ thy servants Hacon Flett an’ 
Gerda Vedder, thou art now to say what man 
stabbed thee.” 


286 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


Peter made one desperate effort, a wild, pas- 
sionate gleam shot from the suddenly-opened 
eyes, and he cried out in a voice terrible in its 
despairing anger, ‘ ‘ yohn Sabay ! yohn Sabay — 
stabb-ed — me ! Indeed — he — did /’ ’ 

“Oh, forgive him, man! forgive him! Dinna 
think o’ that now, Peter ! Cling to the cross — 
cling to the cross, man ! Nane ever perished 
that only won to the foot o’ it. ’ ’ Then the plead- 
ing words were whispered down into fast-sealing 
ears, and the doctor quietly led away a poor 
heart-stricken girl, who was too shocked to weep 
and too humbled and wretched to tell her sorrow 
to any one but God. 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


287 


CHAPTER IV. 

The bailies, after hearing the deposition, im- 
mediately repaired to John Sabay’s cottage. It 
was Saturday night, and no warrant could now 
be got, but the murderer must be secured. No 
two men bent on such an errand ever found it 
more difficult to execute. The little family had 
sat later than usual. John had always news they 
were eager to hear — of tourists and strangers he 
had seen in Wick, or of the people the steamer 
had brought to Kirkwall. 

He was particularly cheerful this evening; his 
interview with Margaret had been hopeful and 
pleasant, and Christine had given the houseplace 
and the humble supper-table quite a festival look. 
They had sat so long over the meal that when 
the bailies entered John was only then reading 
the regular portion for the evening exercise. All 
were a little amazed at the visit, but no one 
thought for a moment of interrupting the Scrip- 
ture; and the two men sat down and listened at- 
tentively while John finished the chapter. 

Bailie Tulloch then rose and went towards the 
dame. He was a far-off cousin of the Sabays, ^ 
and, though not on the best of terms with them. 


288 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


his relationship was considered to impose the duty 
particularly on him. 

“Gude-e’en, if thou comes on a gude errand,’^ 
said old Dame Alison, suspiciously; “but that’s 
no thy custom, bailie.” 

“I came, dame, to ask John anent Peter 
Fae.” 

The dame laughed pleasantly. ‘ ‘ If thou had 
asked him anent Margaret Fae, he could tell thee 
more about it. ’ ’ 

“This is nae laughing matter, dame. Peter 
Fae has been murdered — yes, murdered ! An’ he 
said, ere he died, that John Sabay did the 
deed.” 

“Then Peter Fae died wi’ a lie on his lips — 
tell them that, John,” and the old woman’s face 
was almost majestic in its defiance and anger. 

“I hae not seen Peter Fae for a week,” said 
John. “God knows that, bailie. I wad be the 
vera last man to hurt a hair o’ his gray head; why 
he is Margaret’s father !” 

“ Still, John, though we hae nae warrant to 
hold thee, we are beholden to do sae; an’ thou 
maun come wi’ us,” said Bailie Inkster. 

“ Wrang has nae warrant at ony time, an’ ye 
will no touch my lad,” said Alison, rising and 
standing before her son. 

“ Come, dame, keep a still tongue.” 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


289 

“My tongue’s no under thy belt, Tulloch ; 
but it ’s weel kenned that since thou wranged us 
thou ne’er liked us.” 

“Mother, mother, dinna fash theesel’. It’s 
naught at a’ but a mistake; an’ I ’ll gae wi’ Bai- 
lie Inkster, if he ’s feared to tak my word.” 

“I could tak thy word fain enough, John — ” 
‘But the thing isna possible, Inkster. Be- 
sides, if he were missing Monday morn, I, being 
i’ some sort a relation, wad be under suspicion o’ 
helping him awa. ’ ’ 

“Naebody wad e’er suspect thee o’ a helping 
or mercifu’ deed, Tulloch. Indeed na!” 

“Tak care, dame; thou art admitting it wad 
be a mercifu’ deed. I heard Peter Fae say that 
John Sabay stabbed him, an’ Ragon Torr and 
Hacon Flett saw John, as I understan’ the mat- 
ter.” 

“Mother,” said John, “do thou talk to nane 
but God. Thou wilt hae to lead the prayer thee- 
sel’ to-night; dinna forget me. I’m as innocent 
o’ this matter as Christine is; mak up thy mind 
on that.” 

“God go wi’ thee, John. A’ the men i’ Ork- 
ney can do nae mair than they may against 
thee.” 

“It’s an unco grief an’ shame to me,” said 
Tulloch, “but the Sabays hae aye been a thorn i’ 
37 


290 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

the flesh to me, an’ John’s the last o’ them, the 
last o’ them !” 

“Thou art makin’ thy count without Provi- 
dence, Tulloch. There ’s mair Sabays than Tul- 
lochs; for there’s Ane for them that counts far 
beyont an’ above a’ that can be against them. 
Now, thou step aff my honest hearthstane — there 
is mair room for thee without than within. ’ ’ 

Then John held his mother’s and sister’s hands 
a moment, and there was such virtue in the clasp, 
and such light and trust in their faces, that it was 
impossible for him not to catch hope from them. 
Suddenly Bailie Tulloch noticed that John was in 
his Sabbath-day clothes. In itself this was not 
remarkable on a Saturday night. Most of the 
people kept this evening as a kind of preparation 
for the Holy Day, and the best clothing and the 
festival meal were very general. But just then it 
struck the bailies as worth inquiring about. 

“Where are thy warking-claes, John — the 
uniform, I mean, o’ that steamship company thou 
sails for — and why hast na them on thee?” 

“ I had a visit to mak, an’ I put on my best to 
mak it in. The ithers are i’ my room. ’ ’ 

“Get them, Christine.” 

Christine returned in a few minutes pale- 
faced and empty-handed. ‘ ‘ They are not there, 
John, nor yet i’ thy kist.” 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


291 


“ I thouglit sae.’’ 

‘‘Then God help me, sister! I know not 
where they are.” 

Even Bailie Inkster looked doubtful and trou- 
bled at this circumstance. Silence, cold and sus- 
picious, fell upon them, and poor John went 
away half-bereft of all the comfort his mother’s 
trust and Christine’s look had given him. 

The next day being Sabbath, no one felt at 
liberty to discuss the subject; but as the little 
groups passed one another on their way to church 
their solemn looks and their doleful shakes of the 
head testified to its presence in their thoughts. 
The dominie indeed, knowing how nearly impos- 
sible it would be for them not to think their own 
thoughts this Lord’s day, deemed it best to guide 
those thoughts to charity. He begged every one 
to be kind to all in deep afiliction, and to think 
no evil until it was positively known who the 
guilty person was. 

Indeed, in spite of the almost overwhelming 
evidence against John Sabay, there was a strong 
disposition to believe him innocent. “If ye 
believe a’ ye hear, ye may eat a’ ye see,” said 
Geordie Sweyn. “ Maybe John Sabay killed old 
Peter Fae, but every maybe has a may-not-be.” 
And to this remark there were more nods of ap- 
proval than shakes of dissent. 


292 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

But affairs, even with this gleam of light, 
were dark enough to the sorrowful family. 
John’s wages had stopped, and the winter fuel 
was not yet all cut. A lawyer had to be pro- 
cured, and they must mortgage their little cot- 
tage to do it; and although ten days had passed, 
Margaret Fae had not shown, either by word or 
deed, what was her opinion regarding John’s 
guilt or innocence. 

But Margaret, as before said, was naturally 
slow in all her movements, so slow that even 
Scotch caution had begun to call her cruel or 
careless. But this was a great injustice. She 
had weighed carefully in her own mind every- 
thing against John, and put beside it his own 
letter to her and her intimate knowledge of his 
character, and then solemnly sat down in God’s 
presence to take such counsel as he should put 
into her heart. After many prayerful, waiting 
days she reached a conclusion which was satisfac- 
tory to herself; and she then put away from her 
every doubt of John’s innocence, and resolved on 
the course to be pursued. 

In the first place she would need money to 
clear the guiltless and to seek the guilty, and she 
resolved to continue her father’s business. She 
had assisted him so long with his accounts that 
his methods were quite familiar to her; all she 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


293 


needed was some one to handle the rough goods, 
and stand between her and the rude sailors with 
whom the business was mainly conducted. 

Who was this to be ? Ragon Torr ? She was 
sure Ra^on would have been her father’s choice. 
He had taken all charge of the funeral, and had 
since hung round the house, ready at any moment 
to do her service. But Ragon would testify 
against John Sabay, and she had besides an un- 
accountable antipathy to his having any nearer 
relation with her. “I’ll ask Geordie Sweyn,” 
she said, after a long consultation with her own 
slow but sure reasoning powers; “ he ’ll keep the 
skippers an’ farmers i’ awe o’ him; an’ he’s just 
as honest as any ither man.” 

So Geordie was sent for and the proposal made 
and accepted. “ Thou wilt surely be true to me, 
Geordie ?’ ’ 

“As sure as death. Miss Margaret;” and when 
he gave her his great brawny hand on it, she 
knew her affairs in that direction were safe. 

Next morning the shop was opened as usual, 
and Geordie Sweyn stood in Peter Fae’s place. 
The arrangement had been finally made so rap- 
idly that it had taken all Stromness by surprise. 
But no one said anything against it; many be- 
lieved it to be wisely done, and those who did 
not, hardly cared to express dissatisfaction with a 


294 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


man whose personal prowess and ready hand were 
so well known. 

The same day Christine received a very sis- 
terly letter from Margaret, begging her to come 
and talk matters over with her. There were such 
obvious reasons why Margaret could not go to 
Christine, that the latter readily complied with 
the request; and such was the influence that this 
calm, cool, earnest girl had over the elder woman, 
that she not only prevailed upon her to accept 
money to fee the lawyer in John’s defence, but 
also whatever was necessary for their comfort 
during the approaching winter. Thus Christine 
and Margaret mutually strengthened each other, 
and both cottage and prison were always the bet- 
ter for every meeting. 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


295 


CHAPTER V. 

But soon the summer passed away, and the 
storms and snows of winter swept over the lonely 
island. There would be no court until Decem- 
ber to try John, and his imprisonment in Kirk- 
wall jail grew every day more dreary. But no 
storms kept Christine long away from him. Over 
almost impassable roads and mosses she made her 
way on the little ponies of the country, which 
had to perform a constant steeple-chase over the 
bogs and chasms. 

All things may be borne when they are sure; 
and every one who loved John was glad when 
at last he could have a fair hearing. Nothing 
however was in his favor. The bailies and the 
murdered man’s servants, even the dominie and 
his daughter could tell but one tale. “Peter 
Fae had declared with his last breath that John 
Sabay had stabbed him.” The prosecution also 
brought forward strong evidence to show that 
very bitter words had passed, a few days before 
the murder, between the prisoner and the mur- 
dered man. 

In the sifting of this evidence other points 
were brought out, still more convincing. Placon 


296 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

Flett said that he was walking to Stromness by 
the beach to meet his sweetheart, when he heard 
the cry of murder, and in the gloaming light saw 
John Sabay distinctly running across the moor. ' 
When asked how he knew certainly that it was 
John, he said that he knew him by his peculiar 
dress, its bright buttons, and the glimmer of gold 
braid on his cap. He said also, in a very decided 
manner, that John Sabay passed Ragon Torr so 
closely that he supposed they had spoken. 

Then Ragon being put upon his oath, and 
asked solemnly to declare who was the man that 
had thus passed him, tremblingly answered, 

‘ ‘ JoJm Sabay P ’ 

John gave him such a look as might well 
haunt a guilty soul through all eternity; and old 
Dame Alison, roused by a sense of intolerable 
wrong, cried out, 

“Know this, there’s a day coming that will 
show the black heart; but traitors’ words ne’er 
yet hurt the honest cause. ’ ’ 

“ Peace, woman !” said an officer of the court, 
not unkindly. 

“Weel, then, God speak for me! an’ my 
thoughts are free; if I daurna say, I may think.” 

In defence Margaret Fae swore that she had 
been with John on Brogar Bridge until nearly 
time to meet her father, and that John then wore 


ONK WRONG STEP. 


297 


a black broadcloth suit and a high hat; further- 
more, that she believed it utterly impossible for 
him to have gone home, changed his clothes, and 
then reached the scene of the murder at the time 
Hacon Flett and Ragon Torr swore to his appear- 
ance there. 

’ But watches were very uncommon then; no 
one of the witnesses had any very distinct idea of 
the time; some of them varied as much as an 
hour in their estimate. It was also suggested by 
the prosecution that John probably had the other 
suit secreted near the scene of the murder. Cer- 
tain it was that he had not been able either to 
produce it or to account for its mysterious disap- 
pearance. 

The probability of Sandy Beg being the mur- 
derer was then advanced; but Sandy was known 
to have sailed in a whaling vessel before the mur- 
der, and no one had seen him in Stromness since 
his departure for Wick after his dismissal from 
Peter Fae’s service. 

No one? Yes, some one had seen him. That 
fatal night, as Ragon Torr was crossing the moor 
to Peter’s house — he having some news of a very 
particular vessel to give — he heard the cry of 
“Murder,” and he heard Hacon Flett call out, 
“I know thee, John Sabay. Thou hast stabbed 
my master !” and he instantly put himself in the 
^ 38 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


298 

way of the flying man. Then he knew at once 
that it was Sandy Beg in John Sabay’s clothes. 
The two men looked a moment in each other’s 
face, and Sandy saw in Ragon’s something that 
made him say, 

“ She ’ll pat Sandy safe ta night, an’ that will 
mak her shure o’ ta lass she ’s seeking far.” 

There was no time for parley; Ragon’s evil 
nature was strongest, and he answered, ‘ ‘ There 
is a cellar below my house, thou knows it weel. ’ ’ 

Indeed, most of the houses in Stromness had 
underground passages, and places of concealment 
used for smuggling purposes, and Ragon’s lonely 
house was a favorite rendezvous. The vessel 
whose arrival he had been going to inform Peter 
of was a craft not likely to come into Stromness 
with all her cargo. 

Towards morning Ragon had managed to see 
Sandy and send him out to her with such a mes- 
sage as insured her rapid disappearance. Sandy 
had also with him a sum of money which he 
promised to use in transporting himself at once to 
India, where he had a cousin in the forty-second 
Highland regiment. 

Ragon had not at first intended to positively 
swear away his friend’s life; he had been driven 
to it, not only by Margaret’s growing antipathy 
to him and her decided interest in John’s case 


ONE WRONG STEP. 


299 


and family, but also by that mysterious power of 
events which enable the devil to forge the whole 
chain that binds a man when the first link is 
given him. But the word once said, he adhered 
positively to it, and even asserted it with quite 
unnecessary vehemence and persistence. 

After such testimony there was but one ver- 
dict possible. John Sabay was declared guilty of 
murder, and sentenced to death. But there was 
still the same strange and unreasonable belief in 
his innocence, and the judge, with a peculiar 
stretch of clemency, ordered the sentence to be 
suspended until he could recommend the prisoner 
to his majesty’s mercy. 

A remarkable change now came over Dame 
Alison. Her anger, her sense of wrong, her im- 
patience, were over. She had come now to where 
she could do nothing else but trust implicitly in 
God; and her mind, being thus stayed, was kept 
in a strange exultant kind of perfect peace. Dost 
confidence ? Not a bit of it ! Both Christine and 
her mother had reached a point where they knew 

“ That right is right, since God is God, 

And right the day must win ; 

To doubt would be disloyalty, 

To falter would be sin.” 


300 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Slowey the weary winter passed away. And 
just as spring was opening there began to be 
talk of Ragon Torr’s going away. Margaret 
continued to refuse his addresses with a scorn he 
found it ill to bear; and he noticed that many of 
his old acquaintances dropped away from him. 
There is a distinct atmosphere about every man, 
and the atmosphere about Ragon people began to 
avoid. No one could have given a veiy clear 
reason for doing so; one man did not ask another 
why; but the fact needed no reasoning about, it 
was there. 

One day, when Paul Calder was making np 
his spring cargoes, Ragon asked for a boat, and 
being a skilful sailor, he was accepted. But no 
sooner was the thing known, than Paul had to 
seek another crew. 

“What was the matter?” 

“ Nothing; they did not care to sail with Ra- 
gon Torr, that was all.” 

This circumstance annoyed Ragon very much. 
He went home quite determined to leave Strom- 
ness at once and for ever. Indeed he had been 
longing to do so for many weeks, but had stayed 


ONK WRONG STEP. 


301 


partly out of bravado, and partly because there 
were few opportunities of getting away during 
the winter. 

He went home and shut himself in his own 
room, and began to count his hoarded gold. 
While thus employed, there was a stir or move- 
ment under his feet which he quite understood. 
Some one was in the secret cellar, and was com- 
ing up. He turned hastily round, and there was 
Sandy Beg. 

“ Thou scoundrel !” and he fairly gnashed his 
teeth at the intruder, “what dost thou want 
here ?” 

“ She ’ll be wanting money an’ help.” 

Badly enough Sandy wanted both ; and a 
dreadful story he told. He had indeed engaged 
himself at Wick for a whaling voyage, but at the 
last moment had changed his mind and deserted. 
For somewhere among the wilds of Rhiconich in 
Sutherland he had a mother, a wild, supersti- 
tious, half-heathen Highland woman, and he 
wanted to see her. Coming back to the coast, 
after his visit, he had stopped a night at a little 
wayside inn, and hearing some drovers talking of 
their gold in Gallic, a language which he well 
understood, he had followed them into the wild 
pass of Gualon, and there shot them from behind 
a rock. For this murder he had been tracked, 


302 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


and was now so closely pursued that he had 
bribed with all the gold he had a passing fishing- 
smack to drop him at Stromness during the night. 

“She’ll gae awa now ta some ither place; 
’teet will she! An’ she’s hungry — an’ unco 
dry;” all of which Sandy emphasised by a des- 
perate and very evil look. 

The man was not to be trifled with, and Ra- 
gon knew that he was in his power. If Sandy 
was taken, he would confess all, and Ragon knew 
well that in such case transportation for life and 
hard labor would be his lot. Other considerations 
pressed him heavily — the shame, the loss, the 
scorn of Margaret, the triumph of all his ill- 
wishers. No, he had gone too far to retreat. 

He fed the villain, gave him a suit of his own 
clothes, and saw him put off to sea. 

Sandy promised to keep well out in the bay, un- 
til some vessel going North to Zetland or Iceland, 
or some Dutch skipper bound for Amsterdam, took 
him up. All the next day Ragon was in misery, 
but nightfall came and he had heard nothing of 
Sandy, though several craft had come into port. 
If another day got over he would feel safe; but he 
told himself that he was in a gradually narrowing 
circle, and that the sooner he leaped outside of it 
the better. 

When he reached home the old couple who 


ONB WRONG STEP. 


303 


hung about the place, and who had learned to see 
nothing and to hear nothing, came to him and 
voluntarily offered a remark. 

‘ ‘ Queer folk an’ strange folk have been here, 
an’ ta’en awa some claes out o’ the cellar.” 

Ragon asked no questions. He knew what 
clothes they were — that suit of John Sabay’s in 
which Sandy Beg had killed Peter Fae, and the 
rags which Sandy had a few hours before ex- 
changed for one of his own sailing-suits. He 
needed no one to tell him what had happened. 
Sandy had undoubtedly bespoke the very vessel 
containing the officers in search of him, and had 
confessed all, as he said he would. The men 
were probably at this moment looking for him. 

He lifted the gold prepared for any such emer- 
gency, and, loosening his boat, pulled for life and 
death towards Mayness Isle. Once in the rapid 
“race” that divides it and 011a from the ocean, 
he knew no boat would dare to follow him. 
While yet a mile from it he saw that he was rap- 
idly pursued by a four-oared boat. Now all his 
wild Norse nature asserted itself. He forgot 
everything but that he was eluding his pursuers, 
and as the chase grew hotter, closer, more exci- 
ting, his enthusiasm carried him far beyond all 
prudence. 

He began to shout or chant to his wild efforts 


304 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

some old Norse death-song, and just as they 
gained on him he shot into the “race” and de- 
fied them. Oars were useless there, and they 
watched him fling them far away and stand up 
with outstretched arms in the little skiff. The 
waves tossed it hither and thither, the boiling, 
racing flood hurried it with terrific force towards 
the ocean. The tall, massive figure swayed like 
a reed in a tempest, and suddenly the half des- 
pairing, half defying song was lost in the roar of 
the bleak, green surges. All knew then what 
had happened. 

‘ ‘ Let me die the death o’ the righteous, ’ ’ mur- 
mured one old man, piously veiling his eyes with 
his bonnet ; and then the boat turned and went 
silently back to Stromness. 

Sandy Beg was in Kirkwall jail. He had 
made a clean breast of all his crimes, and meas- 
ures were rapidly taken for John Sabay’s enlarge- 
ment and justification. When he came out of 
prison Christine and Margaret were waiting for 
him, and it was to Margaret’s comfortable home 
he was taken to see his mother. ‘ ‘ For we are 
ane household now, John,” she said tenderly, 
“an’ Christine an’ mother will ne’er leave me 
any main” 

Sandy’s trial came on at the summer term. 
He was convicted on his own confession, and sen- 



Page 304. 













ONE WRONG STEP. 305 

tenced to suffer tlie penalty of his crime upon the 
spot where he stabbed Peter Fae. For some time 
he sulkily rejected all John’s efforts to mitigate 
his present condition, or to prepare him for his 
future. But at last the tender spot in his heart 
was found. John discovered his affection for his 
half-savage mother, and promised to provide for 
all her necessities. 

‘‘It’s only ta poun’ o’ taa, an’ ta bit cabin ta 
shelter her she’ll want at a’,” but the tears fell 
heavily on the red, hairy hands; “an’ she’ll na 
tell her fat ill outsent cam to puir Sandy. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thou kens I ,will gie her a’ she needs, an’ if 
she chooses to come to Orkney — ’ ’ 

“ Na, na, she wullna leave ta Hieland hills 
for naught at a’.” 

‘ ‘ Then she shall hae a siller crown for every 
month o’ the year, Sandy.” 

The poor, rude creature hardly knew how to 
say a “thanks;” but John saw it in his glisten- 
ing eyes and heard it in the softly-muttered 
words, “She was ta only ane tat e’er caret for 
Santy Beg.” 

It was a solemn day in Stromness when he 
went to the gallows. The bells tolled backward, 
the stores were all closed, and there were prayers 
both in public and private for the dying criminal. 
But few dared to look upon the awful expiation, 
39 


3o6 SCOTTISH sketches. 

and John spent the hour in such deep communion 
with God and his own soul that its influence 
walked with him to the end of life. 

And when his own sons were grown up to 
youths, one bound for the sea and the other for 
Marischal College, Aberdeen, he took them aside 
and told them this story, adding, 

‘ ‘ An’ know this, my lads : the shame an’ the 
sorrow cam a’ o’ ane thing — I made light o’ my 
mother’s counsel, an’ thought I could do what 
nane hae ever done, gather mysel’ with the deil’s 
journeymen, an’ yet escape the wages o’ sin. 
Lads ! lads ! there ’s nae half-way house atween 
right and wrang; know that” 

‘ ‘ But, my father, ’ ’ said Hamish, the younger 
of the two, ‘ ‘ thou did at the last obey thy mo- 
ther.” 

‘‘Ay, ay, Hamish; but mak up thy mind to 
this: it isna enough that a man rins a gude race; 
he maun also start at the right time. This is what 
I say to thee, Hamish, an’ to thee, Donald: fear 
God, an’ ne’er lightly heed a gude mother’s ad- 
vice. It’s weel wi’ the lads that carry a mother’s 
blessing through the warld wi’ them.” 




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LILE DAVIE. 


In Yorkshire and Lancasliire the word “lile” 
means “little,” but in the Cumberland dales it 
has a far wider and nobler definition. There it is 
a term of honor, of endearment, of trust, and of 
approbation. David Denton won the pleasant 
little prefix before he was ten years old. When 
he saved little Willy Sabay out of the cold waters 
of Thirlmere, the villagers dubbed him “Tile 
Davie.” When he took a flogging tp spare the 
crippled lad of Farmer Grimsby, men and women 
said proudly, “He were a lile lad;” and when he 
gave up his rare half-holiday to help the widow 
Gates glean, they had still no higher word of 
praise than “kind lile Davie.” 

However, it often happens that a prophet has 
no honor among his own people, and David was 
the black sheep of the miserly household of 
Denton Farm. It consisted of old Christopher 
Denton, his three sons, Matthew, Sam, and Da- 
vid, and his daughter Jennie. They had the rep- 
utation of being “people well-to-do,” but they 


310 SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 

were not liked among the Cumberland “states- 
men,” who had small sympathy for their nig- 
gardly hospitality and petty deeds of injustice. 

One night in early autumn Christopher was 
sitting at the great black oak table counting over 
the proceeds of the Kendal market, and Matt and 
Sam looked greedily on. There was some dis- 
pute about the wool and the number of sheep, 
and Matt said angrily, “There’s summat got to 
be done about Davie. He’s just a clish-ma- 
saunter, lying among the ling wi’ a book in his 
hand the lee-long day. It is just miff-maff and 
nonsense letting him go any longer to the school- 
master. I am fair jagged out wi’ his ways.” 

“That’s so,” said Sam. 

“Then why don’t you gie the lad a licking, 
and make him mind the sheep better ? I saw him 
last Saturday playing sogers down at Thirlston 
with a score or more of idle lads like himsel’.” 
The old man spoke irritably, and looked round 
for the culprit. “I’ll lay thee a penny he’s at 
the same game now. Gie him a licking when he 
comes in, son Matt.” 

“Nay, but Matt wont,” said Jennie Denton, 
with a quiet decision. She stood at her big 
wheel, spinning busily, though it was nine 
o’clock ; and though her words were few and 
quiet, the men knew from her face and, manner 


/ 


ule: davik. 31 1 

that Davie’s licking would not be easily accom- 
plished. In fact, Jennie habitually stood between 
Davie and his father and brothers. She had 
nursed him through a motherless babyhood, and 
had always sympathized in his eager efforts to 
rise above the sordid life that encompassed him. 
It was Jennie who had got him the grudging per- 
mission to go in the evening to the village school- 
master for some book-learning. But peculiar cir- 
cumstances had favored her in this matter, for nei- 
ther the old m_an nor his sons could read or write, 
and they had begun to find this, in their changed 
position, and in the rapid growth of general in- 
formation, a. serious drawback in business mat- 
ters. 

Therefore, as Davie could not be spared in the 
day, the schoolmaster agreed for a few shillings a 
quarter to teach him in the evening. This ar- 
rangement altered the lad’s whole life. He soon 
mastered the simple branches he had been sent to 
acquire, and then master and pupil far outstepped 
old Christopher’s programme, and in the long 
snowy nights, and in the balmy summer ones, 
pored with glowing cheeks over old histories and 
wonderful lives of great soldiers and sailors. 

In fact, David Denton, like most good sons, 
had a great deal of his mother in him, and she had 
been the daughter of a long line of brave West- 


312 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


moreland troopers. The inherited tendencies 
which had passed over the elder boys asserted 
themselves with threefold force in this last child 
of a dying woman. And among the sheepcotes 
in the hills he felt that he was the son of the men 
who had defied Cromwell on the banks of the 
Kent and followed Prince Charlie to Preston. 

But the stern discipline of a Cumberland 
states-man’s family is not easily broken. Long 
after David had made up his mind to be a soldier 
he continued to bear the cufis and sneers and 
drudgery that fell to him, watching eagerly for 
some opportunity of securing his father’s permis- 
sion. But of this there was little hope. His 
knowledge of writing and accounts had become 
of service, and his wish to go into the world and 
desert the great cause of the Denton economies 
was an unheard-of piece of treason and ingrati- 
tude. 

David ventured to say that he ‘‘had taught 
Jennie to write and count, and she was willing to 
do his work.” 

The ignorant, loutish brothers scorned the idea 
of “ women-folk meddling wi’ their ’counts and 
wool,” and, “besides,” as Matt argued, “Da- 
vie’s going would necessitate the hiring of two 
shepherds; no hired man would do more than half 
of what folk did for their ain.” 


LILE DAVIE. 


313 

These disputes grew more frequent and more 
angry, and when Davie had added to all his other 
faults the unpardonable one of falling in love with 
the schoolmaster’s niece, there was felt to be no 
hope for the lad. The Dentons had no poor rela- 
tions ; they regarded them as the one thing not 
needful, and they concluded it was better to give 
Davie a commission and send him away. 

Poor Jennie did all the mourning for the lad; 
his father and brothers were in the midst of a new 
experiment for making wool water-proof, and 
pretty Mary Butterworth did not love David as 
David wished her to love him. It was Jennie 
only who hung weeping on his neck and watched 
him walk proudly and sorrowfully away over the 
hills into the wide, wide world beyond. 

Then for many, many long years no more was 
heard of ‘ ‘ Tile Davie Denton. ’ ’ The old school- 
master died and Christopher followed him. But 
the Denton brothers remained together. How- 
ever, when men make saving money the sole end 
of their existence, their life soon becomes as un- 
interesting as the multiplication table, and people 
ceased to care about the Denton farm, especially 
as Jennie married a wealthy squire over the moun- 
tains, and left her brothers to work out alone their 
new devices and economies. 

Jennie’s marriage was a happy one, but she 
40 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


3H 

did not forget her brother. There was in Esth- 
waite Grange a young man who bore his name 
and who was preparing for a like career. And 
often Jennie Esthwaite told to the lads and lasses 
around her knees the story of their ‘ ‘ lile uncle, ’ ’ 
whom every one but his own kin had loved, and 
who had gone away to the Indies and never come 
back again. “Eile Davie” was the one bit of 
romance in Esthwaite Grange. 

Jennie’s brothers had never been across the 
“fells” that divided Denton from Esthwaite; 
therefore, one morning, twenty-seven years after 
Davie’s departure, she was astonished to see Matt 
coming slowly down the Esthwaite side. But 
she met him with hearty kindness, and after he 
had been rested and refreshed he took a letter 
from his pocket and said, “Jennie, this came 
from Davie six months syne, but I thought then 
it would be seeking trouble to answer it.” 

“Why, Matt, this letter is directed to me! 
How 'dared you open and keep it?” 

“Dared, indeed! That’s a nice way for a 
woman to speak to her eldest brother ! Read it, 
and then you ’ll see why I kept it from you.” 

Poor Jennie’s eyes filled fuller at every line. 
He was sick and wounded and coming home to 
die, and wanted to see his old home and friends 


once more. 


DAVIIC. 


3-5 

“O Matt! Matt!’^ she cried; “how cruel, 
how shameful, not to answer this appeal. ’ ’ 

“Well, I did it for the best; but it seems I 
have made a mistake. Sam and I both thought 
an ailing body dovering round the hearthstone 
and doorstone was not to be thought of — and 
nobody to do a hand’s turn but old Elsie, who is 
nearly blind — and Davie never was one to do a 
decent hand job, let by it was herding sheep, and 
that it was not like he’d be fit for; so we just 
agreed to let the matter lie where it was. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, it was a cruel shame. Matt. ’ ’ 

“Well, it was a mistake; for yesterday Sam 
went to Kendall, and there, in the Stramon-gate, 
he met Tom Philipson, who is just home from 
India. And what does Tom say but, ‘ Have you 
seen the general yet?’ and, ‘Great man is Gen. 
Denton,’ and, ‘Is it true that he is going to 
buy the Derwent estate?’ and, ‘Wont the In- 
dian Government miss Gen. Denton 1’ Sam 
wasn’t going to let Tom see how the land lay, 
and Tom went off saying that Sam had no call 
to be so pesky proud; that it wasn’t him who 
had conquered the Mahrattas and taken the Ghiz- 
nee Pass.” 

Jennie was crying bitterly, and saying softly 
to herself, ‘ ‘ O my brave laddie I O my bonnie 
lile Davie 1” 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


316 

“Hush, woman ! No good comes of crying. 
Write now as soon as you like, and the sooner 
the better.” 

In a very few hours Jennie had acted on this 
advice, and, though the writing and spelling 
were wonderful, the poor sick general, nursing 
himself at the Bath waters, felt the love that 
spoke in every word. He had not expected 
much from his brothers; it was Jennie and Jen- 
nie’s bairns he wanted to see. He was soon after- 
wards an honored guest in Esthwaite Grange, and 
the handsome old soldier, riding slowly among 
the lovely dales, surrounded by his nephews and 
nieces, became a well-known sight to the villages 
around. 

Many in Thirlston remembered him, and 
none of his old companions found themselves 
forgotten. Nor did he neglect his brothers. 
These cautious men had become of late years 
manufacturers, and it was said were growing 
fabulously rich. They had learned the value of 
the low coppice woods on their fell-side, and had 
started a bobbin-mill which Sam superintended, 
while Matt was on constant duty at the great 
steam-mill ,.n Milloch-Force, where he spun his 
own wools into blankets and serges. 

The men were not insensible to the honor of 
their brother’s career; they made great capital 


DAVIE. 


317 

of it privately. But they were also intensely 
dissatisfied at the reckless way in which he spent 
his wealth. ‘ Young David Esthwaite had joined 
a crack regiment with his uncle’s introduction 
and at his uncle’ s^charges, and Jennie and Mary 
Esthwaite had been what the brothers considered 
extravagantly dowered in order that they might 
marry two poor clergymen whom they had set 
their hearts on. 

“It is just sinful, giving women that much 
good gold,” said Matt angrily: “and here we are 
needing it to keep a great business afloat. ’ ’ 

It was the first time Matt had dared to hint 
that the mill under his care was not making 
money, and he was terribly shocked when Sam 
made a similar confession. In fact, the brothers, 
with all their cleverness and industry, were so 
ignorant that they were necessarily at the mercy 
of those they employed, and they had fallen into 
roguish hands. Sam proposed that David should 
be asked to look over their affairs and tell them 
where the leakage was: “He was always a lile- 
hearted chap, and I’d trust him. Matt, up hill 
and down dale, I would. ’ ’ 

But Matt objected to this plan. ,He said Da- 
vid must be taken through the mills and the most 
made of everything, and then in a week or two 
afterwards be offered a partnership; and Matt, be- 


SCOTTISH sketches. 


318 

ing the eldest, carried the day. A great festival 
was arranged, everything was seen to the best ad- 
vantage, and David was exceedingly interested. 
He lingered with a strange fascination among the 
steam-looms, and Matt saw the bait had taken, 
for as they walked back together to the old home- 
stead David said, “You were ever a careful man. 
Matt, but it must take a deal of money — you un- 
derstand, brother — if you need at any time — I 
hope I don’t presume.” 

“ Certainly not. Yes, we are doing a big busi- 
ness — a very good business indeed; perhaps when 
you are stronger you may like to join us. ’ ’ 

“I sha’n’t get stronger. Matt — so I spoke 
now. ’ ’ 

Sam, in his anxiety, thought Matt had been 
too prudent; he would have accepted Davie’s 
offer at once ; but Matt was sure that by his plan 
they would finally get all the general’s money 
into their hands. However, the very clever al- 
ways find some quantity that they have failed to 
take into account. After this long day at the 
mills General Denton had a severe relapse, and 
it was soon evident that his work was nearly fin- 
ished. 

“ But you must not fret, Jennie dear,” he said 
cheerfully; “I am indeed younger in years than 
you, but then I have lived a hundred times as 


LILE DAVIE. 


319 

long. What a stirring, eventful life I have had ! 
I must have lived a cycle among these hills to 
have evened it; and most of my comrades are al- 
ready gone.” 

One day, at the very last, he said, “Jennie, 
there is one bequest in my will may astonish you, 
but it is all right. I went to see her a month ago. 
She is a widow now with a lot of little lads around 
her. And I loved her, Jennie — never loved any 
woman but her. Poor Mary ! She has had a 
hard time; I have tried to make things easier.” 

“You had always a lile heart, Davie; you 
could do no wrong to any one.” 

“I hope not. I — hope — not.” And wdth 
these words and a pleasant smile the general an- 
swered some call that he alone heard, and trust- 
ing in his Saviour, passed confidently 

“ The quicks and drift that fill the rift 
Between this world and heaven.” 

His will, written in the kindest spirit, caused 
a deal of angry feeling; for it was shown by it 
that after his visit to the Denton Mills he had re- 
voked a bequest to the brothers of ^20,000, be- 
cause, as he explicitly said, “My dear brothers 
do not need it;” and this ^^ 20,000 he left to Mary 
Butterworth Pierson, “who is poor and delicate, 
and does sorely need it.” And the rest of his 


320 


SCOTTISH SKETCHES. 


property lie divided between Jennid ’and Jennie s 
bairns. 

In the first excitement of tbeir disappointment 
and ruin, Sam, who dreaded his brother’s anger, 
and who yet longed for some sympathetic word, 
revealed to Jennie and her husband the plan Matt 
had laid, and how signally it had failed. 

“ I told him, squire, I did for sure, to be plain 
and honest with Davie. Davie was always a lile 
fellow, and he would have helped us out of trou- 
ble. Oh, dear! oh, dear I that 20,000 would 
just have put a’ things right.” 

“A straight line, lad, is always the shortest 
line in business and morals, as well as in geome- 
try; and I have aye found that to be true in my 
dealings is to be wise. Lying serves no one but 
the devil, as ever I made out. ’ ’ 



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